




p \f S, 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
























PROUD 

LADY 


NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
SPRING 1923 


Star of Earth 
Morris Dallett 

Downstream 

Sigfrid Sinvertz 

Ralph Herne 

W. H. Hudson 

Gates of Life 

Edwin Bjdrkman 

Druida 

John T. Frederick 

The Long Journey 
Johannes V. Jensen 

The Bridal Wreath 
Sigrid Undset 

The Hill of Dreams 
Arthur Machen 

A Room with a View 
E. M. Forster 


J 

PROUD LADY 

NEITH BOYCE 



NEW YORK' 'ALFRED 'A' KNOPF 

1923 



COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 

Published, January , 1923 






Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York. 
Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


JAN 29 ’23 " 

©C1A69S077 ' 

C 


2 


PROUD 

LADY 















I 


A CROSS the ringing of the church bells came the 
whistle of the train. Mary Lavinia, standing in 
the doorway, watched her mother go down the 
walk to the gate. Mrs. Lowell’s broad back, clad in 
black silk, her black bonnet stiffly trimmed with purple 
pansies, bristled with anger. She opened the gate and 
slammed it behind her. The wooden sidewalk echoed 
her heavy tread. She w 7 ent down the street out of sight, 
without looking back. 

The slow melancholy bells were still sounding, but 
now they stopped. Mrs. Lowell would be late to church. 
Mary listened, holding her breath. She heard the noise 
of the train. Now it whistled again, at the crossing, now 
it was coming into town—white puffs of smoke rose 
over the trees. The engine-bell clanked, and the shrill 
sound of escaping steam signalled its stopping. 

Mary listened, but there was no cheering, though a 
number of people had gone to the depot to welcome the 
little knot of returning soldiers. She remembered the 
day, three years before, when the company raised in the 
town had marched to the train—there was plenty of 
cheering then. Now perhaps half a dozen of those 
men were coming back. The war was over, but the 
rest of them had been left on southern battle-fields. 

Mary stood looking out at the light brilliant green 
of the trees in the yard. It was very quiet all around 

her. The house always seemed quiet when her mother 

1 


2 


PROUD LADY 


was out of it, and now there was a lull after the storm. 
But she was breathing quickly, intent, listening, shiver¬ 
ing a little in her light print dress. The spring sunlight 
had little warmth, the air was sharp, with a damp 
sweetness. In the silence, she heard the rustling of a 
paper and the sound of a slight cough, behind a closed 
door. Her father was there, in his office. He would 
have gone to meet the train, she knew, but that these 

j 

were his office-hours. But she couldn’t have gone— 
and neither could she go to church, however angry her 
mother might be. A light flush rose in her cheeks, as 
she stood expectant. 

She was beautiful—tall, slender, but with broad 
shoulders and a straight proud way of holding herself. 
Her thick hair, of bright auburn, with a natural small 
ripple, parted in the middle, was drawn down over her 
ears into a heavy knot. She was dazzlingly fair, with 
a few freckles on her high cheek-bones, with large clear 
grey eyes, with scarlet, finely-cut lips. She looked 
mature for her twenty years and yet completely 
virginal, untouched, unmoved. But her face expressed 
very little of what she might be thinking or feeling. 
It was like a calm mask—there was not a line in it, there 
was no record to be read. 

Footsteps began to echo down the wooden walk, and 
voices. She went into the house and shut the door. In 
the office she heard a chair pushed back, and as she did 
not want to speak to her father just then, she walked 
quickly and lightly out through the big bright kitchen 
into the garden at the back of the house, slipping on 
as she went a blue coat that she had taken from the 
hall. 




PROUD LADY 


3 


The garden was long and narrow, bounded by rail 
fences along which was set close together lilac bushes 
and other flowering shrubs of twenty years’ growth. 
It was carefully laid out, in neat squares or oblongs, 
separated by rows of currant and gooseberry bushes or 
by grass-paths. The fresh turned earth in the beds 
looked dark and rich. All the bushes and shrubs were 
covered with light-green leaves. Bordering the central 
path were two narrow beds of tulips, narcissus, jonquils, 
flowering in thick bands of colour. At the end of the 
garden was a small orchard of apple, cherry and peach 
trees, some of them in bloom. In summer there was 
shade and seclusion here, but now there was no place to 
hide. Mary stopped a moment, looking back at the 
house, then opened a gate and in a panic fled out into 
the pasture. She was well aware that she ought to be 
in the house, that the minister was coming to dinner, 
that the roast would probably burn, but above all that 
some one was coming for her, that they would be call¬ 
ing her any moment; so she hurried on, up a slight 
rise of ground, over the top of it, and there she was 
out of sight. 

The pasture stretched all about her, dotted with cattle 
nibbling the short green grass. Below, the ground fell 
suddenly, and there was a large pond. It was very 
deep, with a treacherous mud bottom near the shores. 
Willows encircled it, and on the farther side marshes 
blended it with the land. The water had a colour of its 
own, almost always dark—now it was a dull blue, deeper 
than the light April sky. Beyond it on every side was 
the prairie, flat, unbroken to the skyline. Trees, fields, 
houses, scattered over it, seemed insignificant, did not 




4 


PROUD LADY 


interrupt its monotony. It rolled away in long low 
wavering lines, endless and sombre, like a dark sea. 

A faint call from the direction of the house—that was 
her father’s gentle voice. Then a shout, lusty and clear 
—her name, shouted out over the hill for the whole town 
to hear! Mary started, a confused cloud of feelings 
made her heart beat heavily. But she stood still. In 
another moment a man appeared at the top of the 
rise and came plunging down toward her. In his blue 
uniform—cap tilted over one eye—just the same! He 
caught her in his arms and kissed her, laughing, re¬ 
peating her name over and over, and kissed her again 
and again. Mary did not return his kisses, but bowed 
her head to the storm. Released at last from the tight 
clasp against his breast, but still held by his hands on 
her shoulders, she looked at him, and he at her—their 
eyes were on a level. But his eyes were full of an intox¬ 
ication of joy, excited, almost blinded, though they 
seemed to be searching her face keenly, from brow to 
lips. Mary’s eyes were clear. She saw the sword-cut 
on his left cheek, a thin red scar—that was new to her. 
She saw that he was thinner and the brown of his face 
was paler—he had been wounded and in hospital since 
she had seen him. She saw what had always repelled 
her—what she thought of vaguely as weakness, in his 
mouth and chin. But then she saw too the crisp black 
hair brushed back from his square forehead, the black 
eyebrows, sharp beautiful curves—and the long nar¬ 
row blue eyes—and these she loved, she did not know 
why, but they had some strange appeal to her, some¬ 
thing foreign, come from far away. She never could 





PROUD LADY 


5 


look at those eyes without tenderness. Now she put 
up her hands on his shoulders and bent toward him, 
and tenderness glowed like a light through the mask. 
At that moment she did not look cold. 

He could not say anything except, “Oh, Mary! 
Mary!’ ’ And Mary did not speak either, but only 
smiled. They sat down together on a stone in the pas¬ 
ture. The young soldier held her hands in his clasp, his 
arm around her, as though he could never let her go 
again. His heart was overflowing. He held her clasped 
against him and stared at the dull-blue water. This 
was like a dream. Many a time, on the bivouac, on the 
march when he dozed from fatigue in his saddle, he had 
dreamed vividly of Mary, he had felt her near him as 
now. He half expected to wake and hear again the 
tramp of marching men, the jingle of the chains of his 
battery behind him. The present, the future, were a 
dream, he was living in the past. He had thought of 
Mary when the shell burst among his guns. “This is 
death,’’ he had thought too, wounded in the hip by a 
fragment of shell, deluged with blood from the man 
killed beside him. He had taken the place of the gunner 
and served his gun. That was at the Wilderness. Yes, 
he had held them back, and brought off his whole bat¬ 
tery. “Distinguished gallantry.”. . . 

He sighed, and touched Mary’s bright hair with his 
lips, and was surprised that she did not vanish. Was it 
true, that life was over, “Daredevil Carlin” was no 
more, his occupation gone? Then he must begin the 
world at twenty-five, with empty hands. He turned and 
looked at the woman beside him. It was hard to realize 
that now his life would be with her, that what he had 
so longed for was his. 




II 


T HE roast was burned. Dr. Lowell, at the head of 
the table, carved and dispensed it, with sly 
chuckles. His mild blue eyes beamed through 
his spectacles, and he kept up the slow flow of con¬ 
versation, now addressing the minister, who sat alone 
on one side of the table, now Captain Carlin, who sat 
with Mary on the other side; and sending propitiatory 
glances at his wife, who loomed opposite, stonily indig¬ 
nant. She was outraged at having her dinner spoiled— 
in addition to everything else. And if looks could have 
done it, the whole company, except the minister, would 
have been annihilated. 

Yes, her husband too. This was one of the times when 
he exasperated her beyond endurance. How ridiculous 
he was, with his perpetual good-humour, his everlasting 
jokes! As he carved the leathery beef he made a point 
of asking each person, “Will you have it well-done, or 
rare?” And then he would wink at her. She glared 
back at him, looking like a block of New England 
granite, as she was. 

It was strange that in a long life together she had 
not been able to crush the light-mindedness out of that 
man. But she had not even made a church member of 
him. He treated the minister as he did anybody else, 
with gentle courtesy—beneath which, if you knew him 
well, you might suspect a sparkle of amusement. He 

laughed at everything, everybody! At times she sus- 

6 


PROUD LADY 


7 


pected him of being an atheist. He had said that he 
was too busy correcting God’s mistakes in people’s bod¬ 
ies to think about their souls, or his own. Mrs. Lowell 
would not have dared repeat this remark to the minister, 
for if she had an atheist in the family she would conceal 
him to the last gasp, as she would a forger. 

Whenever she spoke, during this meal, she addressed 
herself pointedly to the minister, for she was above being 
hypocritical or pretending that Captain Carlin’s pres¬ 
ence was welcome to her. Prom the deep respect of 
her manner toward the Reverend Mr. Robertson, he 
might have been a very venerable personage indeed. 
But he was a young man, under thirty and at first glance 
insignificant—slight and plain. His straw-coloured hair 
was smoothed back from a brow rather narrow than 
otherwise, his light eyebrows and lashes gave no empha¬ 
sis to his grey-blue eyes, his complexion was sallow, his 
mouth straight and rather wide. Perhaps Mrs. Lowell’s 
manner merely indicated respect to the cloth. 

But when Hilary Robertson spoke, people listened to 
him—whether he was in his pulpit or in a chance crowd 
of strangers. Sometimes on the street, people would 
turn and look at him, at the sound of his voice. It had 
a deep, low-toned bell-like resonance. The commonest 
words, spoken in that rich voice, took on colour, might 
have an arresting power. Perhaps this remarkable 
organ accounted for Hilary Robertson as a minister 
of religion. No, it was only one of his qualifications. 

A second glance was apt to dwell on his face with 
attention. There were deep lines from the nostrils to 
the corners of the mouth and across the forehead and 
between the eyebrows. The pale-coloured eyes had a 




8 


PROUD LADY 


luminous intensity, and the mouth a firm compression. 
A fiery irritable spirit under strong control had writ¬ 
ten its struggle there. 

As he sat quietly, eating little, speaking less, but 
listening, glancing attentively at each of the family in 
turn and at Captain Carlin, only an uncommon pallor 
showed that he was feeling deeply. No one—not Mrs. 
Lowell, though she suspected much, not Mary—no one 
knew what the return of Carlin meant to Hilary 
Robertson. Two people at that table would have been 
glad if Carlin never had come back. Mrs. Lowell 
would have denied indignantly that she wished any ill 
to Laurence Carlin—only she did not want her daughter 
to marry a nobody, of unworthy foreign descent. But 
the minister faced the truth and knew that he, Hilarj' 
Robertson, sinner, had hoped that Laurence Carlin 
would die in battle; that when his imagination had 
shown him Carlin struck down by a bullet, he felt as 
a murderer feels. His heart had leaped and a deep 
feeling of solace had filled it, to think that Carlin might 
be out of his way. Why not, where so many better men 
had died? Why must just this man, whom his judg¬ 
ment condemned, come back to cross the one strong 
personal desire of his life, his one chance of happiness? 
Mary belonged to him already, in a sense—he shared 
the life of her soul, its first stirring was due to him. 
Not a word of love had ever been spoken between them. 
She was betrothed, he could not have spoken to her. 
But all the same he felt that only a frail bond held her 
to the other—the bond of her word and of a feeling less 
intense than the spiritual sympathy between her and 
himself. . . . But now it was all over—Carlin had come 





PROUD LADY 


9 


back and she would marry him. And a soul just begin¬ 
ning to be awakened to eternal things would perhaps 
slip back into the toils of the temporal and earthly. . . . 

Dr. Lowell asked questions about Washington city, the 
great review of the army, about General Grant, and 
Sherman and the new President. Carlin answered 
rather briefly, his natural buoyancy suppressed by the 
hostility of two of his auditors. But this he felt only 
vaguely, his happiness was like a bright cloud enfolding 
him, blurring his eyes. The other people were like shad¬ 
ows to him, he was really only conscious of Mary there 
beside him. He would have liked to be silent, as she 
was. 

There was no lingering over the table. The doctor 
had his round of visits to make. The Indian pudding 
disposed of, he lit his pipe, put on his old felt hat and 
his cape, took his black medicine-chest, and went out 
to hitch up Satan, a fast trotter who had come cheap 
because of his kicking and biting habits. Gentle Dr. 
Lowell liked a good horse, and as he pointed out to his 
wife, he needed one, on his long country journeys at 
all hours of the day or night. The horse’s name had 
provoked a protest, but as the doctor said, that was his 
name and it suited him, why change it? You might 
christen him the Angel Gabriel but it wouldn’t change 
his disposition. 

The minister took his leave, saying that he had work 
to do. At parting he asked if he should see them at 
evening meeting. Mary felt a reproach and blushed 
faintly and Mrs. Lowell said with asperity, “Certainly, 
that is all except the doctor, nobody ever knows when 
he’ll be back.” She escorted Mr. Robertson to the door, 




10 


PROUD LADY 


and then majestically began gathering up the dinner 
dishes. There were no servants in the household. 
Mary came to help, but her mother said sternly, “I’ll 
attend to these, you can go along.” 

So Mary went along, to the parlour where Laurence 
Carlin was waiting. This room was bright now because 
of the sunlight and the potted plants in all the windows, 
between the looped-up lace curtains. But the furniture 
was black-walnut and horse-hair, and marble-topped 
tables. On the walls were framed daguerreotypes and 
a wreath under glass, of flowers made from hair. It was 
not a genial room. The blue and purple hyacinths 
flowering in the south windows made the air sweet with 
rather a funeral fragrance. 

Carlin turned to her with a tremulous wistful look. 
After the first joy of seeing her, as always, timidity 
came upon him. Each time that he had come back to 
her, during these four years, it seemed that he had to woo 
her all over again. Each time she had somehow become 
a stranger to him. Yet she had never repudiated the 
engagement made when she was seventeen. It was 
always understood that they were to be married. But it 
seemed almost as though she had accepted and then 
forgotten him. She took their future together for 
granted, but his passionate eagerness found no echo in 
her. So he always had to subdue himself to her calm, 
her aloofness, and his wistful hungry eyes expressed his 
unsatisfied yearning. Mary liked him best when only 
his eyes spoke, when his caress, as now, was timid and 
restrained. He touched her bright hair and looked 
adoringly at her untroubled face. They sat down 
together on the slippery horse-hair sofa. 




PROUD LADY 


11 


Captain! ’ said Mary, looking 1 at the stripes on his 
sleeve with a pensive smile. “So now you’re Captain 
Carlin! ’ ’ 

That s all I am, ’ ’ he said ruefully. 11 1 have to 
start all over again now.” 

“Yes.” 

“Nothing to show for these four years.” 

Mary smiled and touched with her square finger-tips 
the scar on his cheek. 

“How did you get that?” 

“Sabre-cut.” He looked hurt. “I wrote you from 
the hospital, don’t you remember?” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said serenely. “Well, it 
doesn’t look so bad. You aren’t sorry, are you?” 

“For what, the—” 

“The four years.” 

“No, I couldn’t help it. But—but—” 

“I’m glad of it—I’m proud of you—and that you 
were promoted for bravery—” 

“Oh, Mary, are you? . . . But bravery isn’t any¬ 
thing, it’s common. Why—” 

“Yes, I know. But you must have been uncommonly 
brave, or they wouldn’t have promoted you!” 

He laughed and drew her near him, venturing a kiss. 

“It seems strange that you have been through all 
that—battles, killing people—and you just a boy too, 
just Laurence,” said Mary dreamily. “And wouldn’t 
hurt q fly. I can remember yet what a fuss you made 
about a kitten—you remember the kitten the boys 
were—” 

“Just Larry O’Carolan, the gossoon, divil a bit else,” 
said Laurence. 





12 


PROUD LADY 


“Oh, don’t be Irish! . . . O’Carolan is pretty, though, 
prettier than Carlin, but it’s too Irish!” 

“You can have it either way you like, Mary darling,” 
said he tenderly. ‘ ‘ Just so you take it soon—will you ? ’ ’ 

She could feel the strong beating of his heart as he 
held her close. 

“And yet—I ought not to ask you, maybe! For I’ve 
got nothing in the world, only my two hands! ... You 
know I was studying law when it came. Judge Baxter 
would take me back in his office, I think—but it would 
be years before—” 

“He said you would be a good lawyer,” pondered 
Mary. 

“Would you like that? I could make some money at 
something else, perhaps, and be reading law too—at 
night or some time. ... Or there’s business—there are 
a lot of chances now, Mary, all over the country. I’ve 
heard of a lot of things. . . . Would you go away with 
me, Mary, go west, if—” 

“West?” 

She looked startled, rather dismayed. 

“Well, we’ll talk about that later, I’ll tell you what 
I’ve heard,” said Laurence hastily. “But I’ll do ex¬ 
actly what you want, Mary, about everything. You 
shall have just what you want, always! ’ ’ 

She smiled, her pensive dreamy smile, and looked at 
his eyes so near her—blue mysterious eyes, radiant with 
love. This love, his complete devotion, she accepted 
calmly, as her right and due. Laurence belonged to her 
and she to him—that was settled, long ago. Her heart 
beat none the quicker at his touch—except now and then 
when he frightened her a little. Mary Lavinia was not 




PROUD LADY 


13 


in the least given to analysing her own feelings. She 
took it for granted that they were what they should be. 
And they remained largely below the threshold of con¬ 
sciousness. 

But now she moved a little away from him and 
studied his face thoughtfully. This was not the hand¬ 
some boy of four years ago, gay, tumultuous, demanding, 
full of petulant ardour. The lines of his mouth and jaw, 
wdiich she had always thought too heavy, with a certain 
grossness, were now firmly set. He was thinner, that 
helped—the scar on his cheek, too. There was power 
in this face, and a look, sad, almost stern, that she had 
never seen before. Suffering, combat, the resolute fac¬ 
ing of death, the habit of command, had formed the 
man. She had been used to command Laurence Carlin, 
she had held him in the palm of her hand. But here 
was something unfamiliar. Her instinct for domina¬ 
tion suffered an obscure check. 




Ill 


T HE doctor returned earlier than usual, and was 
able to work for an hour in his garden, before 
dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple shawl, 
stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil 
with a pitchfork. She often objected to his working on 
Sunday. The doctor pointed out that his hedges were 
thick enough to conceal him from observation; she said 
that being seen wasn’t what mattered, but breaking the 
Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more 
religious when working in his garden than any other 
time, so that Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate 
day to work in it. This would reduce Mrs. Lowell to 
silence; she always looked scandalized when her hus¬ 
band referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy some¬ 
where. 

This old dispute was not in question now, however. 
In answer to a question about “the young folks,” Mrs. 
Lowell had said curtly that they were out walking. 
Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with its 
keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly 
trouble and chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently. 
“You mustn’t worry about it, Mother.” 

Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly. 
‘ 1 Of course I worry about it! I never liked it! ” 
“No, I know you didn’t. But Laurence isn’t a bad 
fellow. ’ ’ 

“That’s a high praise for a man that—that—!” 

14 


PROUD LADY 


15 


“Yes, I know, yon think he isn’t good enough for 
Mary. But you wouldn’t think anybody good enough.” 

“ I’ve seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who 
is he, anyway—the son of a labourer, a man that 
worked for day-wages when he wasn’t too drunk!” 

“Oh, come now, Mother! Don’t shake the family 
crest at us. Your father was a carpenter—and don’t 
I work for wages ? ’ ’ 

“My father was a master-carpenter and had his own 
shops and workmen, as you know very well! ’ ’ cried Mrs. 
Lowell, flushing with wrath. “And if you like to say 
you work for wages, when it isn’t true, you can, of 
course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good 
Americans for generations back and not bog-trotting 
Irish peasants!” 

“Now, Mother, who told you Laurence’s ancestors 
trotted in bogs? They may have been—” 

“Didn’t his father come over here with a bundle on 
his back, an immigrant t" 

“Why, now, we’re all immigrants, more or less, you 
know. Didn’t your ancestors come over from Eng¬ 
land?” 

“James Lowell—” 

“Yes, I know, they came in the Mayflower, or pretty 
nearly . . . that is, those that did come. Of course, on 
one side you’re right, and we’re all immigrants and 
foreigners, except you! You’re the only real native 
American! ’ ’ 

And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to 
walk into the house. A standing joke with him was 
Mrs. Lowell’s aboriginal ancestry. Her grandfather, in 
Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the 




16 


PROUD LADY 


doctor pretended to have discovered that this grand¬ 
mother was half Indian. He would point to her minia¬ 
ture portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight black hair 
and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell 
and Mary too had the high cheek-bones, they had also 
great capacity for silence, which the doctor said was 
an Indian trait—not to mention the ferocity of which 
he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him 
was her undoubted descent from a genteel English 
family which actually did boast a crest and motto—and 
the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal with these 
family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, 
any day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that 
seal with her pride in the grandfather who had fought 
in the Revolution? 

But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his 
pitchfork in the ground and followed her, saying peni¬ 
tently : 

“There, there, now, I was only joking.’’ 

“Yes, you’d joke if a person was dying! . . But you 
know very well what I’m thinking about is his character, 
that’s what worries me. His father drank. And he’s 
got nothing to hold him anywhere, he’s a rolling stone, 
I’m sure. I don’t believe he has principles. And he’s 
been roaming around for four years, getting into all 
sorts of bad habits, no doubt—” 

The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife’s 
idea that the life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not 
to say license. Useless to point to Laurence’s military 
record, for she did not approve of the war, her position 
being that people should be let alone and not interfered 
with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were 




PROUD LADY 


17 


responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it 
was a good riddance. How did she reconcile this prin¬ 
ciple of non-resistance with the fact that she imposed 
her own will whenever she could on all around her? 
She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to 
reconcile any of her ideas with one another—it was 
impossible to argue with her. So he sighed, for he knew 
she wanted comfort, her pride and her love for Mary 
were bleeding—and he couldn't give it. He was doubt¬ 
ful himself about this marriage. What he finally said 
was cold enough comfort: 

‘ 1 1 don't think we can help it. ’ ’ 

“You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. 
I’ve said all 1 can." 

“I’ll talk to Mary," he said. 

“Oh—talk!" 

With that she went into the house and banged the 
door. Well, what did she expect him to do—shut Mary 
up—or disinherit her? The doctor smiled ruefully as 
he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, but 
he would work as long as he could see. There was no 
set meal on Sunday nights—people went to the pantry 
and helped themselves when they felt like it. He liked 
the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed with the manure 
he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and 
over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous 
leaves, was a thin crescent moon. He stood looking at 
it, leaning on his pitchfork, thinking that tomorrow he 
would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had time. 
Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tender¬ 
ness and melancholy, now as ever, though he was an 
old man. . . . 




18 


PROUD LADY 


He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he 
had deeply admired; of the men now returning to their 
homes, the long struggle over; of the many he had known 
who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, 
had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been 
rejected on the score of age. That might have been a 
good end, he thought. Now what was before him but 
old age, with lessening powers, the routine of life. . . . 
He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having 
come, went slowly in. 

To his wife’s surprise, he offered to accompany her 
to church. She was pleased, for now she could take his 
arm instead of Carlin’s, who followed with Mary. 
Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, but 
as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked 
silently, arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had 
been very sweet and gentle to him, all day, and very 
serious—more so than ever before. She had changed, 
he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a 
woman. She had never been very gay—but yet she 
had had a glow of youth rather than sparkle, an enthu¬ 
siasm, that he missed now. They had talked over plans 
for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him 
at once, if he wished. She did not mind his being poor, 
she had said earnestly, she expected they would be, at 
first. She had not expected it to be a path of roses. 
There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. 
Marriage with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle 
—not a sober reality. 

Still silently, they entered the church and took their 
seats. It was the “meeting-house,” plain, austere— 




PROUD LADY 


19 


nothing to touch the senses. No mystery of shadowy 
lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But the 
pews and benches were full, when the simple service 
began, there were even people standing at the back, as 
in a theatre. 

Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad 
rim of her bonnet hid her face from Laurence, but he 
felt this was the attitude of prayer. He watched her 
for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. 
He had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her 
absorption seemed to set her away from him—it was one 
more change. She raised her head only when the min¬ 
ister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and 
then she looked directly at him . She joined in the sing¬ 
ing, with a deep, sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous. 

Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. 
With his black coat and black string tie he looked like 
any other respectable citizen, and his manner was per¬ 
fectly simple. But when he began his prayer, there 
was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It 
was a brief prayer, for help in present trouble, for 
guidance in darkness, like the cry of a suffering heart. 
Many of the congregation were in mourning. This ap¬ 
peal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of 
personal anguish. 

There was the secret of Hilary’s power. He never 
appeared the priest, set apart from the struggle of 
living—but a man like any other, a sinner, for so he 
felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic 
power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, 
his eloquence, his personality, created an atmosphere, 
in that bare room, like cathedral spaces, the colours of 




20 


PROUD LADY 


stained glass, deep organ melodies, incense—an atmos¬ 
phere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling. 

When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, 
Carlin caught a glimpse of Mary’s face, pale, exalted; 
her eyes, shining with fervour, fixed upon the minister. 
The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all feeling, 
illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. 
Some strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, 
into a region where he could not follow. She was as 
unconscious of him now as though he had not existed, 
and so she remained through the service. 

Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms 
folded, his narrow blue eyes upon the speaker. He 
wanted to study and judge this man, for whom he sud¬ 
denly felt a personal dislike. 

He referred this dislike to Hilary’s office—any 
assumption of spiritual authority was repugnant to him, 
perhaps partly from memories of his boyhood, when the 
priest had tried to direct him. His mood of sharp 
criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary’s 
brief discourse. The first thing that struck his attention 
was a quotation from Lincoln’s inaugural address: 

“If God wills that it continue until all the wealth 
piled by the bondman’s two hundred and fifty years 
of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop 
of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another 
drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years 
ago, so must it still be said, ‘The judgments of the 
Lord are true and righteous altogether’.” 

This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher 
said, the whole nation had spent to cancel the debt in¬ 
curred by our own and our father’s guilt, the measure 




PROUD LADY 


21 


had been filled up by the death of Lincoln. In spite of 
himself, Carlin approved what was said about Lincoln. 
It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had 
been declared, the nation was still in the midst of 
turmoil arising out of past errors, the evil spirit, de¬ 
parting, had rent and torn it. Peace was not on the 
earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had 
been given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The 
w T orld was an eternal battle-field, the field of a war with¬ 
out truce and without end, till man should subjugate 
his own nature. In the heart of man, full of pride, 
self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that 
could overcome himself was greater than he that should 
take a city. That was the true, the infinite struggle, 
of which all others were but ephemeral incidents—that 
was the end and aim of man’s existence on earth. Not 
with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles 
be fought and his eternal conquests made. 

Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire 
of a spirit to whom these things were realities, indeed 
the only realities, all else being a shadow and a dream. 
There was nothing cold about his morality, nothing soft 
or sweet—it was intense, hard and burning. 

A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning—but all the same 
a man to be reckoned with. 




IV 


A T the close of the service, the minister stood at the 
door, to shake hands with his departing congrega¬ 
tion. Carlin, not disposed to shake his hand, 
went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They 
moved on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of 
the sidewalk, under the maple-trees, and waited. 

“He’s a good speaker,” said the doctor pensively. 
“I like to come and hear him once in a while.” 

“Yes,” said Carlin, coldly. “He’s an able man.” 
“He’s too mystical for me, though. . . . Seems to me 
you can think too much about salvation, you can look 
at your own soul so hard that you get cross-eyed . . . 
that’s the way it affects some of them. The women 
think a lot of him.” 

“Yes.” 

“I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous,” 
went on the doctor mildly. “It takes a strong head, 
you know, to keep it straight. . . . But he’s all right, 
himself, he’s a good man. Got into trouble preaching 
against slavery—he lost his first church that way, in 
Chicago—that was before the war. Oh, yes, he’s 
plucky. ’ ’ 

The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched 
the church door for Mary, then he went on: 

“He doesn’t pay much attention to worldly affairs, 
though—doesn’t care about political institutions and 

so on. We had a discussion when he first came here, 

22 


PROUD LADY 


23 


about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance ex¬ 
cept the human soul, but each soul is of infinite impor¬ 
tance, the soul of the black slave is just as important as 
that of his white master. He said he hated slavery 
because of its effect on the master more than on the 
slave. He said the slave could develop Christian virtues, 
but the master couldn’t.” 

The doctor paused and chuckled softly. 

“I asked him,” he resumed, “why, if the slaves out¬ 
numbered the masters, the sum of virtue might not be 
greater under slavery. But of course he had his an¬ 
swer, we were not to do evil that good might come. . . . 
Shall we walk on? The women-folks are probably con¬ 
sulting about something or other. They do a lot of 
church-work. ’ ’ 

After a moment’s hesitation, Carlin accompanied him. 

“I didn’t know Mary was so much interested in the 
church,” he said moodily. “She wasn’t, before.” 

“Well,” said the doctor. “The war has made a 
difference, you know. Life has been harder—not many 
amusements—and lots of tragedies and suffering. 
We’ve had losses in our own family. . . . The 
church was about the only social thing that didn’t seem 
wrong, to the women, you see. And they’ve done a lot 
of work, through it, for the soldiers and all that. . . . 
Yes, Mary’s changed a good deal, she’s very serious. 
I think the preacher has had a good deal of influ¬ 
ence.” 

“How?” asked Carlin abruptly. 

“Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, 
a vale of tears, a place of trial, and so on. ... It is, 
maybe, but she’s too young to feel it so. I hope she’ll 




24 


PROUD LADY 


get out of that and enjoy life a little,” the doctor ended, 
with much feeling. 

They walked on in silence. Carlin’s heart was sore. 
The doctor had not mentioned his absence and peril as 
having anything to do with the change in Mary. Well, 
perhaps it hadn’t had. He gave way to a sudden 
impulse. 

“You’re not against her marrying me, are you?” he 
asked tremulously. ‘ ‘ I know your wife is. She doesn’t 
like me.” 

“No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence,” 
was the doctor’s grave answer. “As far as you’re con¬ 
cerned, I’ve no objection. . . . But sometimes I think 
Mary isn’t ready to marry yet.” 

“She says she is,” said Laurence quickly. 

“I don’t pretend to understand anything,” said the 
doctor plaintively, and sighed. 

“Perhaps—you think she doesn’t care enough about 
me—is that it ? ” 

“Sometimes I think she doesn’t care about anybody,” 
was the regretful answer. 

When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in. 

“ I ’ll walk on, for a bit, ’ ’ he said. 

The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a 
lamp. This room was arranged to suit him, and he did 
as he pleased in it. It smelt very much of tobacco, 
though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a 
couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture 
consisted of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides 
some shelves full of books. Out of it opened his bed¬ 
room, which had an outside door with a night-bell. 




PROUD LADY 


25 


The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with 
a pipe and a medical review. But his attention wan¬ 
dered from the printed page, and twice he let his pipe 
go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk 
returned, and he noted that they entered the house in 
silence. 

He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she 
came in, she asked with surprise, “ Where’s Laurence ?” 

‘ 1 He went off for a little walk. . . . Sit down, my dear, 
I want to talk to you.” 

Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on 
the sofa. She disliked the atmosphere of this room, not 
so much the tobacco-flavour as the flavour of the confes¬ 
sional. She was used to hearing low-toned murmurs 
coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes 
sounds of pain and weeping. And now she had an in¬ 
stant feeling that she was in the confessional, as had hap¬ 
pened a few times before during her girlhood, occasions 
of which she retained a definite impression of fear. 

“Mary, are you sure you’re doing right?” asked the 
doctor abruptly, yet gently. 

“Right?” she murmured, defensively. 

“About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are 
ready to marry him, at once.” 

“Yes, I am ready,” said Mary, with a forced calm¬ 
ness. “We have been engaged four years. I always 
expected to marry him when he came back.” 

“And you haven’t changed your mind at all, in those 
four years? You were very young, you know—it would 
be natural that you should change.” 

“No—I haven’t changed.” 

“In some ways, you have. . . . But you mean not in 




26 


PROUD LADY 


that way. You still love Laurence, as much as ever?” 

“Yes,” said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending 
a deep flush into her cheeks. 

“Because, you know, you are not bound to marry 
him,” said the doctor sharply. 

“Don’t you think that a promise is binding?” asked 
Mary. 

* ‘ Certainly not—that kind of a promise! Are you 
going to marry him just because you promised?” 

“I have no wish to break my promise,” said Mary. 

‘ ‘ Because it’s a promise, or because you want to marry 
him anyway and would, if you hadn’t promised? Come, 
Mary, answer me! ’ ’ 

“I want to keep my promise,” said Mary clearly, 
with a look of the most perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes. 

The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on 
his desk with his fist. But instantly he controlled him¬ 
self, for he loved this exasperating child of his, and there 
was no one but himself to stand between her and harm— 
so he felt it. 

“You mean,” he said tenderly, “that you haven’t 
any reason not to keep it?” 

Mary assented. 

“And Laurence loves you and depends on you.” 

Her silence gave assent to this. 

“You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him—de¬ 
sert him.” 

“Yes, of course it would be.” 

“And there’s no one else you care about?” 

The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary 
started slightly, and cast a troubled and angry glance 
at her inquisitor. But such was the personality of this 




PROUD LADY 


27 


little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying eyes, 
such was his relation to his daughter, that she never 
thought of denying his authority or right to question 
her. She felt obliged to answer him, and truthfully too. 

“Nobody—in that way,” she said faintly. 

“You don’t love anyone else.” 

“No.” 

“And you haven’t thought of marrying any one 
else ? ’ ’ 

There was just an instant’s hesitation before she 
answered: 

“No.” 

The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long 
eyelids drooping—the image of maiden calm. 

“Well, then, I was mistaken,” said the doctor after a 
pause. “I thought you were interested in some one 
else—and I guess your mother thought so too. . . . But 
it wasn’t that kind of interest.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” said Mary quickly. 

“But it was—it is—an interest. I wish you could 
tell me what it is, why you think so much of Mr. 
Robertson as you do, what your feeling is about him.” 

“But—it isn’t a personal feeling!” cried Mary, no 
longer calm, suddenly alert and on the defensive. “It 
has nothing to do with that!” 

41 But you admire him and look up to him— ’ ’ 

“Of course I do! But you don’t understand, you 
don’t believe—” 

“It’s religious, you mean, it’s your feeling for relig¬ 
ion, and he represents it—” 

“Yes,” said Mary angrily. 

“Don’t be vexed with me, my dear—perhaps I don’t 





28 


PROUD LADY 


understand these things, as you say. . . . But he is 
something like a spiritual director, isn’t he, now?” 

“I don’t know what you mean by that—” 

‘ ‘ I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, 
and he gives you counsel,” said the doctor gravely. 

“Yes—yes, he does.” 

“Have you talked to him about your marriage?” 

‘ ‘ I—why, no ! ” 

“You don’t talk about worldly affairs, then—is that 
it? Do you think marriage not important enough to 
talk about?” 

“It isn’t that! I haven’t, because—” 

Here was a pause, and the doctor asked: 

“Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling 
for you that—” 

‘ ‘ No, it wasn’t that! He hasn’t—it isn’t that at all! ” 

Disturbed, distressed, she got up. 

“Wait a minute, Mary. ... I wish you would talk 
to him about it, ’ ’ said the doctor in his most serious tone. 

‘ ‘ But, why ? Why should I ? ” 

“Why? Because it’s a most important thing to you, 
and mixed up with everything, or should be. Because 
you shouldn’t keep your religion separate from your 
marriage. Because you shouldn’t shut Laurence out 
from everything.” 

“I shut him out?” 

“Now you do as I tell you, Mary,” said the doctor 
quietly. 

He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilder¬ 
ment and silent revolt. He hesitated whether he should 
tell Mary that he thought her religion erotic in origin 
and her feeling for the minister very personal indeed, 




PROUD LADY 


29 


but finally decided against it. She would deny it not 
only to him but to herself—women’s minds were made 
like that. At last he said: 

“I think at first you were in love with Laurence— 
but four years is a long time, and you were very young. ’ ’ 

“I haven’t changed,” said Mary proudly. 

“Yes, you have, but you don’t want to admit it. You 
think there are higher things than being in love. You 
seem to think of marriage as a serious responsibility, a 
—sort of discipline.” 

“Isn’t it?” she asked. 

“Well, that isn’t the way to go into it! Confound 
it, I tell you you had better not!” 

He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his 
hand and drew her toward him. 

“What a child you are, Mary—with your airs of 
being a hundred and fifty! ... I don’t think you un¬ 
derstand anything. The basis of marriage is physical, 
if that isn’t right nothing is right—you want to think 
of that, Mary. It’s flesh and spirit, but both, not 
divided. If your imagination is drawn away from Lau¬ 
rence to what you think are spiritual things, then you 
oughtn’t to marry—or you ought to marry Hilary. ’ ’ 

Mary stood like a stone—her fingers turned cold in his 
grasp. He saw the tears flood her eyes, and got up and 
led her to the door, and dismissed her with a kiss on 
her cold cheek. 





V 


S HE went out and stood at the gate, waiting for 
Laurence, uneasy about him, troubled by many 
thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying when 
she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. 
The thin little moon was already sinking behind the 
trees, but there was bright starlight, so that Laurence 
could see her face. 

“What’s the matter, Mary?” he cried. 

“Where have you been? Why did you run off like 
that?” she demanded with a sob. 

She swung the gate open for him, but he took her 
hand and drew her out. 

“It’s early yet—come, we don’t want to go in yet. 
Come, let’s get away from everybody!” 

She was quite willing at the moment to get away from 
everybody. Out of a vague sense of injury she con¬ 
tinued to weep, and to Laurence’s anxious inquiries 
she returned a sobbing answer: 

“I don’t think older people ought to interfere! . . . 
It’s our own business, isn’t it ? . . . What do they know 
about it . . .” 

Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing 
about it and had better not interfere, and kissed her 
tearful eyes till she protested that they must go on now 
or somebody would be coming. She said softly: 

“Poor Laurence! This isn’t very gay, for your first 
evening home!” 


30 



PROUD LADY 


31 


11 Never mind about being gay!” 

He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode 
down the street with a feeling that he was bearing her 
off triumphantly from a legion of enemies. When she 
was near him, and in a troubled and melting mood, 
like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt 
sure of her, and that was all he cared about at present. 
As for anybody interfering, that was nonsense. His 
spirits rose with a bound out of the evening’s depres¬ 
sion. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and Mary 
was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, 
and full of careless, gay and witty turns of speech that 
amused and charmed her. No one had ever amused her 
so much as Laurence. With him life seemed really a 
cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence—he had the 
brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over 
now with plans, schemes of all sorts. . . . The vastness, 
the richness of the country, its endless opportunities, 
were in his imagination, a restless ambition in his veins. 
He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful 
self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved 
in different ways, and had stood the test. So far he had 
always been successful. His mind was restless now be¬ 
cause a definite channel for his activity was to be fixed. 
He wanted Mary’s advice—rather, he wanted to know 
what she wanted. His own most marked bent was 
toward the law, with a vista of political power beyond. 
And there was money in the law, too. But if Mary 
wanted more money, a lot of money—well, she had only 
to say so! As his talk came back to this point, Mary 
said that she didn’t care about money, and that he had 
better stick to the law and go into Judge Baxter’s office. 





32 


PROUD LADY 


“Not Chicago? ... I thought you’d like to make a 
start in a big city,” he suggested persuasively. 

“Why not here? . . . You’d have a better start with 
Judge Baxter, and you know he’s a good lawyer, he has 
a big practice. . . . And then we could live at home 
till you get started, ’ ’ Mary said practically. 

No, Laurence didn’t like that at all, it wouldn’t do, 
living with Mary’s parents! . . . She didn’t press that 
point, but she was firm about not going away—not to 
Chicago, still less to some vague point “out west.” 
Laurence argued. Why did she want to stay here, in 
this one-liorse town? Why not the city? There was 
more life, there were more chances, in the city, she would 
like it better. ... No! Mary couldn’t explain why she 
wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that 
she wanted to. . . . 

Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed 
it, perhaps in acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, 
asking himself why, after all. . . . 

He-looked at the town from the vantage-point of his 
four years’ wanderings. By contrast with the great 
cities he had seen, the east, populous and civilized, the 
picturesque south, beautiful mountains and valleys, 
stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich 
in colour and luxury—beside all this the little town, his 
birth-place, seemed like a mere mud-spot on the 
prairie. ... A little square, with a few brick buildings, 
the bank, the courthouse, small shops—two or three 
streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out 
into the prairie—what was the attraction, the interest 
of this place ? . . . His absence had broken all his own 
associations with it except as to Mary. His mother, the 




PROUD LADY 


33 


last remaining member of bis family, bad died the year 
before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The 
friends of his youth had scattered, most of them in the 

army. He could not see himself settling here. 

Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his law¬ 
reading, if he decided on the law—they might stay till 
then, since Mary wanted it. But why did she? To be 
sure, she knew no other place, what friends and interests 
she had were here—but she was young, she must want 
to see something of the world! He shook his head, in 
pensive bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! 
He made no pretence of understanding the sex—in fact 
never had had time or occasion to make an exhaustive 
study of it. 

They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; 
beyond was only a path by the roadside. They went a 
little distance along this, but it was muddy; a stream, 
dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed. 
Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence 
protested. So they sat down on the trunk of a fallen 
tree, among a clump of willows that hung over the 
stream. 

The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; 
on the other, the prairie stretched out dark and silent, 
with the starry sky bright by contrast. A slight breeze 
swayed the long fronds of the willows, the stream 
gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out 
in the pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous 
bull-frog. . . . The damp heavy air, hardly stirring, had 
a sweet oppression, a troubled languor, the pulse of 
the spring. . . . 

Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary 






34 


PROUD LADY 


gently in his arms, and kissed her lowered eyelids and 
her lips, first lightly, then lingeringly, then as she began 
to resist, with passionate possession. 

‘‘Don’t—don’t push me away,” he begged. “Come 
near to me. ...” 

But she was frightened, and struggled against his 
strong clasp, till she slipped down, bent backward over 
the tree-trunk, and cried out with pain and anger. 
Laurence released her suddenly, roughly. 

“You don’t love me,” he said. 

She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat 
still, turning away from her. 

“You don’t love me,” he repeated bitterly. “You’d 
better leave me—go back.” 

Without a word she moved away, her head bent, 
stumbling a little on the dark path. He looked after 
her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like that, without a 
word to him, without a sign. ... Was she angry—was 
she hurt? . . . That silence of hers was a strong 
weapon. She disappeared beyond the trees. . . . No, he 
couldn’t let her go like that. In a moment he over¬ 
took her. 

“Take my arm,” he said curtly. “The path’s 
rough. ’ ’ 

She took it, and they went back in silence. As they 
came to a street-light he looked at her, and saw the 
mysterious mask of her face more immobile, more impas¬ 
sive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, now 
it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to 
break with her, to tell her that he was going away. She 
was too elusive, too distant, too cold. . . . But instead, 
when they came to her gate, he only murmured sadly: 




PROUD LADY 


35 


“Forgive me, Mary.” 

And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him 
good-night, and said steadily: 

“You shouldn’t have said what you did. I do love 
you. Why should I want to marry you if I don’t love 
you ?’ ’ 

“I don’t know, Mary,” said Laurence with a faint 
weary smile. 




VI 


J UDGE Baxter’s office was in the Bank Building, up 
a flight of worn and dingy stairs. Carlin, know¬ 
ing the Judge’s habits, appeared there at eight 
o’clock the next morning, and was warmly welcomed. 
The judge was a big man, with waves of white hair and 
beard and bright blue eyes; carelessly dressed; with a 
quid of tobacco in his cheek, which did not interfere with 
his speech, but gave him a somewhat bovine, meditative 
air, as he rolled and nibbled at it in the intervals of 
conversation. 

“Coming back to me, Laurence?” he said at once, 
tilting back his chair and beaming at the young man. 

“I don’t know—I came to talk things over,” 
Laurence hesitated. 

4 ‘Hope you will—don’t see as you could do better. 
I always said you ought to go into law. And I need 
an assistant. What’s the objection?” 

“Well—I hadn’t thought of settling here.” 

“I know.” The Judge nodded. “Hard to settle 
down now—I expect things seem pretty dull and drab 
to you around here. Natural. A lot of good fellows 
will have the Wanderlust —” 

“No, I want to settle down. ... I want to be mar¬ 
ried soon,” said Laurence, slightly embarrassed. 

“Yes, I know—Miss Mary! Think of her waiting for 
you all this time—a lot of girls wouldn’t have done that, 

and I don’t believe she even had a sweetheart,” said 

36 


A 


PROUD LADY 


37 


the Judge, his eyes twinkling. “ Though I tell you, if 
I ’d been twenty years younger—you see, she used to run 
up here and read me some of your letters. . . . She’s a 
beautiful woman,” ended the old man warmly. 

“I must make some money—I haven’t a dollar!” 
Laurence explained. “I thought there’d be better 
chances in the city perhaps, or—” 

“No, no!” the Judge protested. “Why, look here, 
you’d have a salary—not much, to be sure, at first—but 
you come into my office and peg away at Blackstone and 
Chitty—and in a year or less you can be admitted to 
the bar. And meantime you could live with the old 
folks—they’re so wrapped up in Mary, they’d like it—” 
“No,” said Laurence positively, “I wouldn’t do that. 
I must have a place of my own to take her to.” 

“Well, yes, I understand.” The Judge chewed his 
cud for a moment, then his face lit up. “See here, 
why shouldn’t you live with me! ... I’ve got a good- 
sized house and there’s the whole top floor I never use, 
and I’ve got a sort of housekeeper, such as she is. You 
two young folks could have all the room you want, and 
Mary could fix up the old place and make it a hell of 
a lot more cheerful, and I’d have somebody to eat with 
and something pretty to look at—why, Jesus, man! It 
would be charity to me, it would, upon my soul! Say 
you will, now! ’ ’ 

“Why, Judge, you’re very kind, I don’t know—I’ll 
think it over, and talk to Mary—we’d pay our board, 
of course,” Laurence stammered, rather overcome. 

“Board, hell!” said the Judge, excited. “Mary could 
fix up some pies and things once in a while—I haven’t 
had a decent doughnut for a year. . . . Well, you can 




38 


PROUD LADY 


board if you want to, we won’t quarrel. . . . And you 
can be making something besides your salary, if you 
don’t mind work—” 

“I don’t,” said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched 
by the old man’s warmth. Somehow he felt at home 
now for the first time since his return, he felt some 
wish to stay. 

The Judge pondered and rolled his quid. 

“Ever run a creamery?” he asked, suddenly, with 
a twinkle. 

Laurence shook his head. 

“I was principal of a school once,” he remarked. 

“Well, I haven’t got a school, but I’ve got a creamery 
—that is, I’m the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicks¬ 
burg, and his widow has been trying to run it—it’s a 
big place at Elmville, about five miles from here—I need 
a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have 
a bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we’ll drive 
over there, I’ve got to go anyway, and we can talk it 
over on the way—” 

There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth 
who occupied the outer office put his head in and an¬ 
nounced a client. Laurence rose. The Judge escorted 
him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were 
to meet at the tavern. 

“It’s only a little worse than at my house,” Judge 
Baxter said cheerfully. “We need a good hotel here. 
We need a lot of things, principally some good, hustling 
young men—I tell you, we’ve missed you fellows. But 
the town’s all right, you mustn’t look down on our town, 
we’re going ahead.” 

Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre 




PROUD LADY 


39 


of the town, and smiled at the Judge’s civic fervour. He 
could not see any signs of enterprise or change, except 
that the young maple-trees along the sidewalks had 
grown, and there were two or three new buildings. The 
same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front 
of the courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the 
saloon. The dry-goods store had a new window with a 
display of shirts and neckties. There was a new 
Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped 
pole, the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing 
on the sidewalk, holding out a bunch of wooden 
cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, 
and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel 
show. Yes, there was an ice-cream parlour, too, 
with a window full of confectionery. Laurence stopped 
to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people who 
recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough 
but not especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund 
of friendship to draw upon in his native town. He said 
to himself, as he walked on, that Judge Baxter was his 
only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this 
morning ? It was too early to go yet—and there was a 
sore feeling in him about Mary. No, he would wait till 
he had made his expedition with the Judge and had 
something definite to talk to her about. Something prac¬ 
tical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went 
on along the street. There was not much of the brass 
band about this home-coming, he reflected, not much of 
Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would sink 
into civilian life without any fuss being made over him— 
so would all the other fellows, the men he had marched 
with this last week, through the streets of Washington, 


* 

i 




40 


PROUD LADY 


Sherman’s magnificent army. There had been plenty 
of brass band there, they had felt pretty important 
then—it was a shame that the Old Man hadn’t been 
allowed to lead his army in review, but had been sent 
straight off to the border. Laurence had a feeling of 
personal affection for the Old Man, and he realized sud¬ 
denly, for his companions in arms. He was going to 
miss them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four 
winds of heaven. The best soldiers on earth—now, like 
him, they would have to compete empty-handed with the 
fat citizens who had stayed behind and been piling up 
money these four years. 

Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and 
reflected that he must get himself a suit of civilian 
clothes. The street he was on brought him to the rail¬ 
road tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after 
car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had 
passed, he crossed the tracks, and the street became a 
road, which led up a slight rise, to the cemetery. He 
followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the wide expanse 
of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, 
that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was 
considerably more populous than the town, he thought; 
and now he was here, he would go and look at his 
mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding it, 
though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot 
had been neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over 
it, hiding the grey slab with her name, the date of her 
death and her age, forty-seven. Another small stone, 
with a dove and the name *‘ Evangeline, ” marked the 
grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this 
was all that remained of his family. Patrick lay on the 




PROUD LADY 


41 


field of Shiloh. As to his father, he might be dead or 
living—he had run away ten years before, and nothing 
had ever been heard of him. 

He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt 
grass. Poor his mother had lived, poor she had died, 
and alone too. Pat and he had both gone and left her. 
He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman 
she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little 
hands and feet—and she worked at the wash-tub, and 
he and Pat, bare-footed boys, carried the wash home in 
baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when she did 
let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered 
the night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, 
fifteen then, knocked his father flat on the floor. That 
was the last night they saw him, he had sworn he 
wouldn’t stay to be beaten by his own son, and they 
had all been glad he went. . . . 

He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking 
he would get out into the country. At the far side of 
the cemetery he passed a little plot without even a head¬ 
stone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey dress was 
kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim 
figure and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without 
seeing her face. She called after him. 

‘ 1 Oh, Larry! Is it you ? ’ ’ 

He turned and she got up and put out both hands 
to him, smiling, showing her big white teeth. 

“Well, Nora!” he cried, clasping her hands gladly. 

11 Why, what a young lady you’ve grown ! ’ 9 

She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her 
nose turned up, and she was freckled, but she had a 
slim graceful shape, her hair was a glory and her eyes 




42 


PROUD LADY 


full of warmth. She had been Laurence’s playmate 
of old—she belonged to the only other Irish family in 
town. They had lived in the slum together, and she had 
been his first sweetheart. 

“And you!” she said, looking at him shyly with art¬ 
less admiration. “I hardly knew you, and yet I knew 
it was you!” 

They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found 
out that she was tending the grave of her brother, 
“Colin, you’ll remember,” who had come back with the 
prison-fever on him, and died, “wasted to the bone.” 
And that she did very well, she had been working on 
a dairy farm but it was too hard for her, and now she 
had got a place in the store, and was to begin next week. 
She lived with her mother. When Laurence said he 
would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and 
asked, couldn’t they meet some evening outside, her 
mother was a bit queer. So they arranged to meet on 
Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by the big 
willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disap¬ 
pointed, perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, 
but she was not one to demand or expect much. 
Laurence remembered what she had been—an humble, 
generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, 
and she didn’t get much. She was always giving more 
than she got, to her family and every one. She was hot- 
tempered, too, and would fly into a rage easily, and then 
dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her rough 
red hands—poor Nora always had worked hard. But 
her neat dress, her carefully arranged hair, showed that 
she was making the most of herself. Her skin was soft 
and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her eyes were almost 




PROUD LADY 


43 


the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were 
like a dog’s eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor 
Nora, what a good little thing she was! With a quick 
glance round, Laurence seized her in his arms and kissed 
her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed and 
trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able 
to resist any sign of affection, however careless. He 
kissed her again, and said a few tender words to her, in 
a lordly way. The homage of her shining dazzled eyes 
was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old 
times had wakened. 

As he left her and went on down the slope, along the 
country road, he realized that his memories of this place 
were deep. He would still have said that there was not 
much he cared to remember, that it was better to cut 
loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty 
of his boyhood still stung him, the community had looked 
down upon him and his, and old slights rankled in him. 
And yet it seemed that, little by little, things were shap¬ 
ing to tie him here. Not only outside, but in himself he 
was feeling as if some root went down deep into the 
black soil of the prairie and held him. 




VII 


I T was late afternoon when they drove back behind 
the Judge’s spanking pair of bays, hitched to a light 
buggy. The roads were very rough, with frequent 
mud-holes where the wheels sank nearly to the axle, but 
when they got a fairly level stretch the trotters stepped 
out finely. 

Laurence had enjoyed this day. On the way over 
they had talked politics. Judge Baxter was a fiery 
Republican. His face flushed red with wrath as he 
spoke of Lincoln’s murder and hoped they would hang 
Jeff Davis for it. He was in favour of a heavy hand on 
the South—Lincoln would have been gentle with them, 
they had killed him, the blank rebels, now let them have 
it. Vae victis! 

Laurence was cooler. He had no anger against the 
men he had helped to fight and beat. They were good 
fighters, good men, most of them. He did not think the 
southern leaders had plotted the attack on Lincoln and 
Seward. They had fought for a wrong idea, a wrong 
political system, and they had been beaten. Now they 
wanted peace, not revenge, he thought. They had 
suffered enough. If they were still to be punished, it 
would take longer to establish the Union in reality. The 
men who had fought for the Union wanted to see it a 
reality, not one section against another any more, but 
one country, united in spirit, great and powerful. 

The Judge had listened, and then said meditatively: 

44 


PROUD LADY 


45 


“You fellows that did the fighting seem to have less 
bitterness than some of us that had to stay at home— 
I’ve noticed that. I suppose you worked it off in fight- 

• * y 

mg. 

“Why, yes,” Laurence agreed. “And then, when 
you come right up against the other fellow, you find 
he’s folks, just like yourself. Of course he’s wrong and 
you have to show him, but he fights the best he can for 
what he believes in, he risks his life, the same as you 
do—and when it’s over you feel like shaking hands, in 
spite of—” 

“You think we ought to let them come back in the 
Union, as if nothing had happened?” 

“Why,” said Laurence slowly. “Aren’t they in it? 
If we fought to prove they couldn’t go out when they 
felt like it—” 

“Well, authorities differ on that point. I’ve heard 
some right smart arguments on both sides,” said the 
Judge sharply. ♦ 

After a short silence, he went on: 

“I see you’ve been thinking and keeping track of 
things. . . . This is a great time we live in, Laurence, 
I wish I was young like you and could see all that’s 
going to happen. Still, I’ve had my day, I’ve seen a 
good deal—and maybe done a little. We had some 
kind of fighting to do here at home, you know, we had 
plenty of black-hearted copperheads here. ... You 
ought to go into public life, my boy, and there’s no 
entering wedge like the law. ’ ’ 

But it was on the way home, after they had spent the 
afternoon inspecting the creamery, a large brick building 
in the midst of a small town, going over accounts and 





46 


PROUD LADY 


talking with various people, it was then that Judge 
Baxter urged on Laurence the wisdom of following the 
path before him here. 

“I don’t see any use in rambling over the country 
looking for something better, ten to one you won’t find 
it,” he argued. “And you haven’t time to lose. 
Laurence, you ought to be buckling right down to your 
job. Our town may look small to you, but she’s linked 
up to a lot of things. To be the big man of this place 
is better than being a small fish in Chicago—to be the 
best lawyer at the bar of your state is no small thing. 
It might lead anywhere, and I believe you’ve got it in 
you. . . . This is your state, Laurence—this country 
round here is a rich country and it’s going to be richer— 
you ought to stay with it.” 

The Judge swept his whip in a wide circle over the 
prairie. They were driving westward, the low sun was 
dazzling in their eyes. Laurence looked to the left and 
the right, over the low rolling swells to the horizon. 
Where the plough had cut, endless furrows stretched 
away, black and heavy, with young green blades show¬ 
ing. Herds of cattle spotted the pastures. Yes, it was 
rich land. . . . With the flood of sunlight poured along 
it, the fresh green starting through, the piping song of 
the birds that have their nests in the grass, the wind 
that blew strongly over the great plain, smelling of the 
spring, it had a strange sweetness to Laurence, even 
beauty. . . . No, it was not beauty, but some sort of 
appeal, vague but strong. . . . 

“You’d have your own people behind you,” said the 
Judge. 




PROUD LADY 


47 


That broke the spell, for the moment. Laurence 
smiled bitterly. 

“You know what my people were—and what your 
people thought of them,” he said in a cutting tone. 
“To tell the truth, that’s one reason I want to go. I 
want to forget that I lived in Shanty-town and my 
mother was Mrs. Carlin the washerwoman, not good 
enough to associate with your women—that weren’t good 
enough, most of them, to tie the shoes on her little 
feet! ’’ 

The Judge turned, pulling the broad brim of his hat 
over his eyes, and looked at the young man’s face, pale 
and set with ugly lines. 

“Laurence,” he said after a moment, “if you’re the 
man I think you are, you won’t want to forget that. We 
can none of us forget what we have been, what we came 
from. You can’t do anything for your mother now, and 
I know it’s bitter to you. But you can make her name, 
her son, respected and honoured here—not somewhere 
else, where she was never known, but here , where she 
lived. That would mean a lot to her. Doesn’t it mean 
something to you?” 

The Judge continued to look earnestly at Laurence’s 
face, and presently saw it relax, soften, saw the stormy 
dark-blue eyes clear, become fixed as though upon a light 
ahead. 

“Judge,” said Laurence huskily, “you understand a 
lot of things. Perhaps you’re right—” 

The Judge, holding whip and reins in one hand, put 
out the other and they shook hands warmly. They were 
silent for a while, then the Judge began to talk about 




48 


PROUD LADY 


the local situation, finance and politics, with a good 
many shrewd personal sketches mixed in. 

“You want to know every string to this town,” he 
remarked. 

Judge Baxter knew all these strings, evidently, and 
could, he insinuated, pull a good many of them. 
Though too modest to point the fact, he himself illus¬ 
trated his contention that, to live in a small town, a 
man need not be small. If he knew Cook county thor¬ 
oughly, the county knew him too. He had rather the 
air of a magnate, in spite of his seedy dress, his beard 
stained with tobacco. He had more money than he 
cared for. His only adornment was a big diamond in 
an old-fashioned ring on his little finger, but he drove 
as good horses as money could buy. 

Near the end of their journey he asked: 

“Well, what do you say—about made up your mind?” 

“Pretty much. I’ll talk to Mary tonight. I don’t 
think she’ll have anything against it. But the women 
have to be consulted, you know, ’ ’ said Laurence lightly. 

“Oh, of course, of course.” 

The Judge didn’t think the women had to be con¬ 
sulted—but then he was a bachelor. 

‘ ‘ I really don’t see why you should be so good to me— 
take all this trouble about me,” pondered Laurence. 

“Well,” said the Judge judicially, “it isn’t altogether 
for you, though I may say that I like you, Laurence. 
But I’m looking out for myself too. I calculate that 
you’re going to be useful to me, you might say a credit 
to me, if I have anything to do with giving you a start. 
I see more in you than—well, I think you’re one in a 
thousand. Remember I’ve seen you grow up, I know 




49 


PROUD LADY 

pretty much all about you. ... I tell you, I felt mighty 
bad when you marched away. I knew it was right, you 
had to go, I wouldn’t have held you back if I could— 
and yet I said to myself, ten to one a bullet will pick 
off that boy instead of some of those lubbers along with 
him, and I felt bad. Why, ’ ’ the Judge ended pensively. 
‘ ‘ I thought I knew then about how it feels to have a son 
go to war—” 

Rather startled himself at this touch of sentiment, 
he flicked the off-horse with his whip, and they dashed 
into the town at top speed. 




VIII 


I N the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. 
He had thought she might be piqued or angry at 
him, but she met him without the slightest coquetry, 
asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her 
tone was almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had 
been a truant child. He liked it. 

They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the 
evening was warm. There was the crescent moon over 
the tree-tops, but tonight it was hazy, a veil had drawn 
across the sky. There was rain in the air. A syringa- 
bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle 
over the porch, were strongly fragrant. 

“I’ll tell you in a little while, I’m tired,” said 
Laurence lazily. He leaned his head against her knee 
and she swept her cool finger-tips over his crisp black 
hair, touching his temples and his eyelids. 

“Are you?” she asked softly. 

He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing 
that he could take his time to speak, Mary was in no 
hurry, she never was. Sometimes her silence and repose 
had irritated him, but more often it was a deep pleasure 
to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf 
stirred. A cricket chirped under the porch. The 
honeysuckle was almost too sweet in the damp air. 
Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was only 
a soft blur. 

When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up 

50 


PROUD LADY 


51 


and took it, clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. 
He moved and looked up at her. She wore a white 
dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open a little 
at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her 
hair. The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear 
and lovely. 

“How beautiful you are,” he murmured. “I love 
you.” 

She put her arms around him and drew him up, his 
head to her shoulder. 

“And I’m very, very fond of you,” she whispered. 
“More than I ever was of anybody. But sometimes 
you’re so impatient.” 

“Yes,” he said submissively. 

“You get angry with me. You always did.” 

“Yes,” he said humbly. “ I’ll try not to. But some¬ 
times I think you don’t love me.” 

“But I do,” she assured him gently. 

“But sometimes—” he stopped. 

“Well, what?” 

“No, I won’t say it.” 

“Yes, tell me.” 

“Well, sometimes—you don’t seem to like to have me 
touch you, you—” 

“I don’t like you to be rough,” said Mary. 

“Am I—rough?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“But if you liked me, you—” 

“No, I do, and you know it.” 

“I don’t see why you should, after all.” 

“Should what?” 

“Love me.” 




52 


PROUD LADY 


“Well, it’s been so long now, I couldn’t very well 
stop,” said Mary, smiling. 

“Yes, a long time. . . . And you really have, all the 
time ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And nobody else? Ever?” 

“No, you know it,” said Mary, lifting her head 
proudly. 

He was silent, thinking of the years past. . . . 

Yes, it had been a long time—six years. They had 
first met at the High School, then at the country college 
where he was working his way and Mary was prepar¬ 
ing to teach. He hadn’t made many friends—he had 
been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of 
fighting to do. But Mary had been his friend from the 
first. Hers was the first “respectable” house in town 
to open its doors to him. He, however, did not know 
what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission 
there. 

Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that 
little town where people apparently lived on terms of 
equality, caste-prejudice was subtle and strong, and 
Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money didn’t count 
for much, as nobody had very much, but education and 
“family” counted heavily, also worldly position. The 
town had its aristocracy—the banker, the minister, the 
lawyers and the doctor. 

Mary, with all her mother’s obstinacy, had something 
of her father’s crystal outlook on the world, his perfect 
unworldliness. She cared nothing for what “people 
would say,” and she seemed to look serenely over the 
heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it 




PROUD LADY 


53 


was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a 
deadlock about Laurence, the doctor was called in, and 
gave his voice on Mary’s side. So Laurence had become 
a visitor, on equal terms with the other young people— 
not invited to meals very often, for that was not the 
custom, but free to drop in of an evening or to take 
Mary out. Their youthful friendship had grown and 
deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen was old 
enough to teach school, she was able also to engage her¬ 
self to him, in spite of her mother’s opposition and her 
father’s wish that she should wait. Many girls were 
married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had made up 
her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to 
change. Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard 
to impress, it held an impression as the rock a groove. 

Memories and thoughts of her were passing through 
Carlin’s mind—vague, coloured by her warmth and near¬ 
ness, a soft tide of adoration. He had always admired 
her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other 
woman ever had. He had known other women, more 
easily moved, more loving, more ready to respond and 
give, than Mary. And he wanted love, wanted it warm 
and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep 
draught of it. But—he wanted Mary, and no other 
woman. Now she would be his, very soon. He was 
very happy there, with his head on her shoulder, feeling 
the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought 
he moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, 
and the dreamy peace that enfolded them was bro¬ 
ken. 

“There, you bad boy,” she said with mild chiding. 




54 


PROUD LADY 


“Don’t pull my hair down—now tell me what you’ve 
been doing all day.” 

He told her, after some insistence—all except the 
meeting with Nora. Laurence never, if he could help it, 
mentioned one woman he had any liking for to another. 
But in this case he didn’t think of Nora at all. He 
told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the pros¬ 
pect of immediate work, of a temporary home with the 
Judge, if she liked the idea. In that case they could 
be married at once. 

She moved away from him, clasped her arms round 
her knees, and sat silent. 

“What is it—have I said anything to bother you?” 
asked Laurence alarmed. 

“I’m just thinking,” she answered absently. 

After a time she began to speak her thoughts. 

“It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge’s house. 
Mother won’t like it, she’ll want us to stay here, she 
will think that people will think it’s queer if we don’t. 
But it wouldn’t be best to live here. Father will under¬ 
stand, I think. He doesn’t care what people think, it 
never bothers him at all. But Mother is different.” 

“And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?” 

“Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own.” 

“That won’t be for long, I hope. I’ll do my best.” 

Mary turned and looked gravely at him. 

“Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?” 

“Perhaps it’s best,” said Laurence vaguely. 

“You know the Judge will be a great help to you, 
getting started.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But 
the main reason is, you want it.” 




PROUD LADY 


55 


‘‘Yes, I think it’s better/’ 

They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty 
and dark behind them. The doctor was off on his 
round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to a neighbour’s. 
About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath 
lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rus¬ 
tling. 

“Rain,” said Laurence. 

They moved up into some low chairs on the porch. 

“Shall I get you a wrap?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” 

Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary’s 
on her knee. The gently falling rain seemed to shut 
them in together, in a strange delicious quiet. 

“Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so 
strongly about this place? . . . You’ve always lived 
here, why is it you don’t want something new?” 

“I don’t like new things,” she said, after a pause. 

“You’re a strange girl! ... You don’t seem like a 
girl at all, sometimes you seem about a thousand years 
old. I feel like a boy beside you. ’ ’ 

“You are a boy,” said Mary. From her tone, she was 
smiling. 

“I would like to know where you get your air of 
experience, of having seen everything! It’s astonish¬ 
ing ! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Everything is everywhere, ’ ’ said Mary serenely. 

“Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my 
word! Where do you get it? I don’t half like it, it 
doesn’t seem natural!” 




56 


PROUD LADY 


Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great 
cloud of smoke. 

“I hope you’re not going to be a saint,” he said 
petulantly. 

Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away 
from his. 

‘‘There, now, I ’ve done it again !” he groaned. “You 
think I’m a barbarian, don’t you. I don’t understand 
you? Well, I don’t! I think you’re wonderful. . . . 
But you don’t explain things to me, you don’t talk—I 
don’t feel that you give me your confidence, not all 
of it—” 

“I don’t like to talk much. . . . And you’re in too 
much of a hurry about everything, ” said Mary coldly. 

“Well, you’re not! ... You have about as much 
speed as a glacier! ’ ’ 

He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch 
and stood with his back to her. But he couldn’t stand 
there forever. And certainly Mary could sit there for¬ 
ever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, 
the white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all 
around, a great wave of sweetness came from the honey¬ 
suckle. 

It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the 
slow turning of the earth, he might as well be angry with 
the rain for falling. . . . She was right—he was im¬ 
patient and violent, and foolish—awfully foolish. No 
wonder she called him a boy. . . . Hadn’t he any self- 
control, any . . . ? 

He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing him¬ 
self ; she did not accuse herself, but she put her arms 
around him? They made peace. 





IX 


T HE minister lived in a small frame house near the 
church. A widow woman of certain age and un¬ 
certain temper kept his house and provided his 
ascetic fare. It was she who opened the door to Mary, 
with the suspicious glance due to the visitor’s youth 
and good looks. Proclaiming that Mr. Robertson 
was busy writing his sermon, she nevertheless 
consented to knock at his study-door, and after 
a moment Mary was admitted. Hilary rose from 
his desk to receive her, gave her hand a quick 
nervous clasp, and indicated a chair facing the windows, 
the only easy-chair in the bare room. For himself he 
was impatient of comfort. He sat down again before 
his desk and waited for Mary to speak, but seeing that 
she looked pale and troubled and hesitated, he began 
with an effort to question her. 

“What is it, Mary? You have something to tell 
me ? How can I help you ? ’ ’ 

She looked earnestly at him, her face was more youth¬ 
ful in its expression of appeal and confidence. 

“You’re the only person I can speak to. . . . Nobody 
else understands,” she murmured. “Every one thinks 
I am wrong.” 

“How, wrong?” 

“My mother is so unhappy, and she makes me un¬ 
happy. ... Do you think I’m wrong, to marry against 
her wish?” 


57 


58 


PROUD LADY 


Hilary was silent, looking at some papers on his 
desk and moving them about. At last he said in a low 
voice: 

“Not if you’re sure, otherwise, that it’s right—for 
you, I mean. We have to judge for ourselves, nobody 
can judge for us. . . . Your parents are opposed . . . 
to your marriage?” 

“Yes—in a different way, not for the same reason. 
My mother never has liked Laurence, she doesn’t trust 
him—and my father—doesn’t trust me, he doesn’t think 
I know my own mind.” 

11 And are you sure you do ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Mary. “I couldn’t desert Laurence, 
possibly, and I don’t see why I should put him off 
longer—when it has been so long already— ’ ’ 

“You want to marry soon, then?” 

“Yes, in two weeks.” 

“Here?” 

“Why, we would be married at home, I suppose.” 

“And then—are you going away?” 

“No, Laurence is going into Judge Baxter’s office, 
and we’re going to live at the Judge’s house, for the 
present.” 

“I see,” said Hilary, in a trembling voice. 

“At first Laurence wanted to go away, to start some¬ 
where else, but I persuaded him to stay here,” Mary 
went on. “I didn’t want to go to a strange place. All 
I care about is here. I don’t want to go away from you, 
Mr. Robertson, I depend on you—” 

Hilary pushed back his chair sharply, then, control¬ 
ling himself, folded his arms tight across his breast. 
His back was to the light which fell on Mary’s face, 




PROUD LADY 


59 


raised toward him with a look of humility that perhaps 
no one but he ever saw there. 

“You’ve taught me so much, and helped me to 
see. . . . Before I knew you, I didn’t know anything 
about life, how one should live. . . . You’re so strong, 
so good. ...” 

“7 am? ... You know very little about it, Mary. 
Don’t say that sort of thing, please. ’ ’ 

“Oh, it’s just because you don’t think you are that 
you’re so wonderful—” 

Hilary looked into her eyes bright and liquid with feel¬ 
ing, and said to himself that he must keep this faith, he 
must not disturb it by a look, a word—or his hold on her 
would be gone. He said abruptly: 

“Your mother has talked to me. She thinks—as you 
say, she doesn’t trust—Captain Carlin. She thinks he 
is irreligious and unsteady—and with a bad inheritance. 
She is troubled about you, she thinks you are marrying 
just because you gave your word, years ago, and don’t 
like to break it. . . . Is it so, Mary ? ’ ’ 

In spite of himself, this question was a demand. 
Mary looked startled. 

“No, no, she doesn’t understand. I love Laurence, 
and he is good, though—though in some ways. . . . No¬ 
body is perfect, you know, and we shouldn’t stop lov¬ 
ing people just because they aren’t altogether—what 
we would like. ... We ought to try to help them, I 
know you think so—” 

“You think you can help him, then?” 

“I hope so, I—” 

“Do you think you’re strong enough to help an¬ 
other ? ’ ’ 




60 


PROUD LADY 


4 


Mary’s bright look wavered a little, was shadowed. 

“Aren’t you too confident? Perhaps you have a 
little too much pride in yourself. You may lose what 
you have instead of helping another.” 

She bowed her head, turning pale under this reproof, 
wincing, but she said humbly: 

“You will help me.” 

“I’m not sure that I can,” said Hilary sharply. 
“When you are married, it will be different—you may 
not be able to do as you would like, live as you would—” 

“But I must!” Mary got up, pale and agitated. 
“Laurence wouldn’t interfere with me in that way, he 
couldn’t. Nothing could!” 

She went a step toward Hilary, and stopped, suddenly 
bewildered and almost frightened by his look. And 
Hilary could bear no more. He turned away from her, 
bent over his papers, and said harshly: 

‘ ‘ I must work now, I can’t talk to you any longer. . . . 
Don’t look for an easy life, Mary, you won’t have it.” 

“But I don’t!” she protested. 

With relief she seized upon his words, her eyes lit up 
again. 

“WLy should I look for an easy life? I don’t want 
it—I expect struggle and suffering, isn’t that what life 
is? You have told me so—” 

“Well, then, you won’t be disappointed,” cried 
Hilary almost savagely. “If you can suffer—I don’t 
know whether you can or not. ...” 

He took up a pen and dipped it blindly in the ink, and 
waited for the closing of the door. 

“You are against me too,” said Mary blankly. 




PROUD LADY 


61 


He made an impatient movement, but did not look 
around at her. 

“You must not mind who is against you, as you call it, 
if you’re sure you are right. That’s the hard thing, 
to be sure, ’ ’ he said in the same harsh voice. 

He was struggling. Why not be honest with Mary, 
tell her that he could not advise her, tell her why? . . . 
He thought she could not be so blind as she seemed to his 
feeling for her. . . . But it would be dishonourable to 
express that feeling, as she was not free. And it would 
shock her faith in him. She depended on him, not as a 
man who loved her, but as a sexless superior being, who 
could teach and lead her. . . . But he was not that, he 
was quite helpless himself for the moment at least, cer¬ 
tainly he could not help her. Why pretend to be what 
he was not ? 

He felt her bewilderment, her disappointment. He 
did not dare look at her, still she lingered. What a child 
she was after all! Looking for support, for approval, 
and yet so rigid in her own way, so sure of herself ! No, 
she never had suffered anything, and she was trying to 
make of her religion an armour against life, that would 
keep her from suffering. He mourned over her. She 
did not see anything as yet, perhaps she never would, few 
women could. In his heart Hilary regarded religion as 
the activity of a man, much as fighting. He was im¬ 
patient with the emotional religion of women; though he 
could hardly have admitted it to himself, he had a tinge 
of the oriental feeling that women have no souls of their 
own and that they can get into heaven only by clinging 
to the garment of a man. ... He would have said that 




62 


PROUD LADY 


religion is too strenuous for women, they do not think, 
feel deeply enough. . . . But it was his duty to help 
these weak sisters and manfully he did it as best he could. 
They clung to his garment and he resisted frequent im¬ 
pulses to twitch it out of their hands. In the case of 
Mary he knew that she was as feminine as the worst of 
them. Only she had more firmness, more clearness, 
there was some kind of strength in her—and she did not 
chatter. 

Oh, how beautiful she was! . . . He sat, making aim¬ 
less scrawls on his paper, and feeling her there behind 
him, feeling her gaze fixed on him. She was waiting for 
him to say something, what on earth could he say? 
Should he say that his heart was breaking at the thought 
that in two weeks she would belong to another man, and 
that he, Hilary Robertson, was expected to stand up and 
perform the ceremony that would give her to this man, 
and that he would not do it? 

He made a long dash across the paper, and rose, turned 
to her. 

“You must go now, Mary—I’m busy. . . .You did 
not come to me because you’re in doubt yourself as to 
what you ought to do, or want to do?” 

“No,” faltered Mary. 

“Then, if you’re sure of yourself, I have no advice to 
give you. If not, make sure. Don’t fear to inflict suf¬ 
fering—some one suffers, whatever we do. We can’t 
avoid that, we have to look beyond it.” 

“Yes,” breathed Mary devoutly, her eyes fixed on his 
face. 

“But we needn’t go out to look for martyrdom either* 
—we can trust life for that,” said Hilary bitterly.. 




PROUD LADY 


63 


She went away, reluctantly, unsatisfied. She had 
wanted, expected, one of those long talks, confidential 
yet impersonal, that had meant so much to her during 
the year past. Never before had he treated her this 
way, he had always had time for her, had shown an 
eager interest in her difficulties. Her face was clouded 
as she walked slowly home. She was bent on keeping 
this relation with her spiritual teacher just as it had 
been. But now she wondered if her marriage was go¬ 
ing to make a difference, had already disturbed and 
troubled it. Why should that be? It made no dif¬ 
ference to her, why should it to him? 

She did not want to think that Hilary was a man like 
other men, she refused to think of him in that way. No, 
he was better, higher, he was above personal feelings— 
that w x as her idea of him. She knew that he cared about 
her, but the image of the shepherd and his sheep, the 
pastor and his flock, dwelt in her mind. If she was dis¬ 
tinguished from the rest of the flock by a special care, 
then it was the mystic love of a soul for another soul, it 
had nothing to do with mere human love, the desire for 
personal satisfaction, for caresses and companionship. 
To see Hilary seeking such things would spoil com¬ 
pletely her idea of him. She saw him as a sort of saint, 
who denied the flesh. Did he not live in the most un¬ 
comfortable way, eating hardly enough to keep body and 
soul together, as the widow said, and working beyond 
his strength, always pale and tired-looking? He was 
devoted to service. It was impossible to think of him 
as taking thought for the morrow, for food and raiment, 
or as married and having a family. 

She remembered how, when he had first come, the 
ladies of the congregation had tried to make him com- 




64* 


PROUD LADY 


fortable—one had even worked him a pair of slippers— 
and how he had brushed their ministrations aside. He 
was subject to severe colds, but by now they had learned 
not to offer any remedies, or even express solicitude. 
Mary never had offended in that way. She liked his 
carelessness about himself, his shabby clothes and frayed 
tie. She felt that probably he would work himself to 
death, would go into a decline and die in a few years, 
but she did not grieve over this prospect as the other 
sisters did. Truly the earth had no hold on him, he 
was already like a spirit. 

She had been profoundly shocked by her father’s sug¬ 
gestion that she might marry Hilary—the more so as 
the idea had before occurred to her that possibly Hilary 
thought of it. But she had rejected this idea, with all 
her obstinacy refused to consider it. Now it came back 
to her, but she denied it. She would not have her idol 
spoiled by any such feet of clay. 

The fact that Hilary repulsed with irritation any 
attempts to idolize him, or to regard him as a superior 
being, only affirmed her conviction that he was one. As 
such he was precious to her, and as such she would keep 
him. 




X 


J UDGE BAXTER was happy. He decided at once 
that his house was not fit for the reception of the 
fair bride, it must be made so. He took Lau¬ 
rence with him to inspect the house from cellar to garret 
and unfolded a scheme of complete renovation. 

“Women like things bright and cheerful,” he said, 
beaming. ‘‘Gay colours and lots of little fixings, in¬ 
stead of this—” and he looked round the chocolate and 
maroon parlours. “ IT1 run up to Chicago tomorrow and 
see what I can find. The wall-papers now—they’ll 
have to be changed. Some light colours—roses, that 
kind of thing. New carpets. And the furniture— 
hasn’t been touched since I bought the place. Time it 
was. And we need a piano for Mary—” 

“Say, Judge, you mustn’t buy out the town,” pro¬ 
tested Laurence. “We don’t want you to go to a lot of 
expense—” 

“Pshaw, pshaw! Don’t interfere with me—guess I 
can do what I like in my own house, can’t I ? If I want 
some new furniture, what have you got to say about it? 
But I tell you, Laurence—suppose you come along with 
me—you know better than I do what women like. Or 
look here ! Why shouldn’t we take Miss Mary? That’s 
the thing!” 

He glowed with pleasure at this idea. 

‘ ‘ I tell you, we three will go up together, say tomorrow 
morning, and we’ll make a day of it, or better, a couple 

65 




66 


PROUD LADY 


of days! We’ll see the town, have a good dinner, go to 
the theatre, and Mary can pick out the stuff we want. 
I’ll arrange at the office, and you go along and fix it up 
with Mary and her people. Tell ’em I ’ll look after her, 
and if she don’t come I’ll buy everything in sight!” 

The Judge was accustomed to getting what he wanted. 
Not considering this threat sufficient, he added a note of 
pathos. 

“Tell her I haven’t had a vacation for a coon’s age, 
and if she wants to please an old fellow and give him a 
good time, she’ll come. You’re both my guests and I’m 
going to enjoy myself. Damn it, man, you fetch her. 
If you don’t I ’ll go after her myself! ’ ’ 

The Judge did enjoy himself. From the train he took 
a carriage straight to the biggest furniture house on 
State Street, and there he plunged into a fury of buy* 
ing. Mary and Laurence stood by, but it turned out 
that they had very little to say about it. When the 
Judge found that Mary had no definite ideas about 
furniture and that she demurred whenever any ex¬ 
pensive article was in question, he over-rode her be¬ 
wildered protests and bought whatever struck his eye. 
He bought a light carpet with red roses on it for the 
parlour, a set of shiny mahogany upholstered in flowered 
brocade, a carved oak set for the dining-room. He 
bought three cut-glass chandeliers and a grand piano; 
marble vases, an onyx clock and a service of French 
china. 

It did not take long. He walked rapidly through the 
room, followed by the salesmen, glancing round with 
an eagle eye and pointing with his cane to what he 




PROUD LADY 


67 


wanted. Sometimes he asked Mary’s opinion, but she 
was shy about giving it, and provided a thing was bright 
enough and costly enough, the Judge was sure she must 
like it. He discovered that he himself had more taste 
than he had suspected; he knew a good article from an 
inferior one in a minute, and he didn’t buy any cheap 
stuff. Everything was handsome. 

When they thought he was all through, he beckoned 
them and announced that now things must be bought for 
their part of the house, the big rooms upstairs, and these 
Mary positively must select. But first they would have 
lunch and take a drive. 

The Judge took his party to the best hotel, engaged 
rooms and ordered an elaborate luncheon, over which 
he was gay as a boy on a holiday. Then, in an open 
carriage, they started out to see the city. 

They drove through miles of badly paved dusty 
streets, faced with wooden buildings. The Judge admit¬ 
ted that it was not a beautiful city—business couldn’t 
be beautiful, except to the mind—but it appealed to his 
imagination. 

Its history was romantic, going back into the dim 
past. Before the whites came, this had been a meeting- 
place for the Indian tribes; and later for voyageurs and 
traders. It had been French territory, then English to 
the end of the Revolutionary War. Its Indian name 
meant “wild onion”—a racy and flavoursome name, 
suggesting strength! 

“Think of it—twenty-five years ago this city had 
less than five thousand inhabitants—now it has a 
quarter of a million! It’s growing like a weed! ’ ’ 




68 


PROUD LADY 


They crossed the river which ran through the middle 
of the city, and the Judge pointed to the thronged 
wharves where ten thousand vessels arrived in a year 
and nearly as many cleared, bringing lumber, carrying 
the yield of the prairie, wheat, corn, and oats. 11 Chicago 
might yet have a direct European trade—a ship had 
sailed from there to Liverpool, with wheat, and three 
European vessels had sailed to Chicago. ...” 

Built on the flat prairie, on sand and swamp, almost 
on the level of the lake, nearly the whole city had now 
been raised a grade of ten feet; an entire business block 
being raised at one time! With such an energetic and 
growing population, with its marvellous situation, com¬ 
manding the lake trade and with all the western 
territory to draw from, the city had a great future. 
“Half the country will be tributary to it,” said the 
Judge with glowing eyes. . . . 

They drove out along the lake shore, a broad beach of 
sand and gravel, back of which rolled low sand-dunes. 
It was a warm June day, and the great inland sea lay 
calm and blue, with a slight mist on the horizon. The 
water sparkled in the sun, a slight motion sent wavelets 
lapping on the sand. No land could be seen across it, 
yet there was the feeling of land out there just beyond 
the line of vision. The air that blew over those miles of 
water was flat, it had an inland flavour. 

Here it was not the water that was boundless, but the 
land. The lake was like a pond—the prairie was like 
the sea. . . . 

Judge Baxter talked on enthusiastically about the 
future of the city, the vast tide of trade that was bound 




PROUD LADY 


69 


to pass through this, the heart of the country. Mary, 
beside him, listened smiling. Laurence, sitting opposite, 
watching Mary, was preoccupied, hardly spoke at all. 

The drive lasted so long that there was no time for 
further shopping. The Judge said they must dine early, 
so as to be in time for the theatre. Mary went up to her 
room, to rest a little and to put on her best dress and 
bonnet which she had brought carefully enveloped in 
tissue paper, in a box. The dress was of grey silk, 
heavy and shining, and the bonnet was white. When she 
was dressed, she stood looking at herself in a long 
mirror for some time. The rich silk, hanging in full 
folds, suited her tall stately figure. Inside the soft airy 
ruches of the bonnet her bright hair rippled, each red- 
gold wave exactly in order, making a clear crisp line 
like metal. Her cheeks were lightly flushed, her grey 
eyes shining. She smiled reluctantly at herself in the 
glass. Beauty, she knew, was a vain show, and vanity 
was a weakness that she hoped was entirely beneath 
her. Still, one should make a proper appearance, with 
due regard to decorum; should not appear careless, nor 
above all eccentric. A lady should look like a lady. 

As she was drawing on her white gloves a knock 
sounded at the door. She went to open it, there stood 
Laurence. 

“Let me come in a minute/’ he said. 

She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated 
look. He left the door ajar, with a quick motion he 
drew her away from it, sat down on the bed, his arms 
round her waist as she stood before him too astonished 
to speak. 

“Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are 




70 


PROUD LADY 


married! Marry me now, here—tonight, or tomor¬ 
row! . . . Why wait any longer—and then all the fuss 
about it. . . . Do, Mary—do this for me, please—” 

He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes 
gleaming intensely, humble and imperious. 

“Sweetheart! Why shouldn’t we? . . . The Judge 
will be a witness, it will be all right, your parents won’t 
mind very much, will they ? . . . I hate a show wedding 
anyhow, a lot of people round. . . . And I don’t want 
to wait any longer, Mary—I want it over and settled, 
and to be alone with you. ... We can stay here a few 
days. . . . Do, please, Mary—” 

He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against 
the silken folds of her skirt; drew her down beside him. 
Mary was thinking, so intently that though she looked 
straight at him she hardly saw him, did not notice that 
he was crumpling her dress, her gloves. 

“We could send a telegram,” he murmured eagerly. 

“No, not a telegram, a letter,” said Mary, abstract¬ 
edly. 

“Yes, a letter!” 

She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her 
go, watching her as she went slowly over to the mirror, 
and smoothed her dress, set her bonnet straight, began 
again to draw on her gloves, all with that absent gaze. 

“You will, Mary?” he breathed. 

She did not answer, hardly heard. 

She was thinking that this would be an end for her 
too of a difficult time. It had been hard for her, with 
her mother especially, who even now was not resigned 
and went about with a pale set face. . . . Her father 
wasn’t happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn’t a 





71 


PROUD LADY 


cheerful atmosphere. . . . They hadn’t treated her very 
well about it. Mr. Robertson too, her pastor, who was 
to marry them—he had rebuffed her. None of them 
had smiled on her, had any joy for her. . . . 

They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be 
anyhow. Her mother, she knew, had intended to hold 
her head high, if the marriage had to be, and to have 
the customary wedding festivities and not let any out¬ 
sider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad 
not to have to go through it. Anyhow— 

She turned, met Laurence’s look of eager suspense 
and appeal, smiled faintly. 

“What an idea! . . . It’s time to go down now—” 

“Yes, but—tell me. . . . Tomorrow?” 

He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and 
tender, as he met her eyes with a new look in them, a 
kind of timidity, a yielding look. He had not thought 
she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild impulse, 
but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was 
thrilled by it—it seemed reckless and adventurous to 
her—an elopement! 

“I’ll take care of you, Mary,” murmured Laurence 
with passionate tenderness. 

She smiled mistily at him. 

At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that 
Judge Baxter insisted on. The Judge’s gaiety and 
flowery compliments, Laurence’s adoring gaze, the novel 
luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at 
the play—it was like a dream. She did not recognize 
herself in the person going through this experience— 
it seemed to be happening to somebody else. That glass 
of golden wine—never had Mary Lowell tasted anything 




72 


PROUD LADY 


of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly. . . . But 
it was delicious not to be Mary Lowell. ... To let her¬ 
self go, for once, to feel this abandonment and not to care 
whither this soft flowing tide was taking her. . . . 

The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told 
him, late that night. 

“The house won’t be ready,” he murmured feebly. 

Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They 
would stop a few days in the city, then they would go 
to Mary’s parents for a time. The Judge mustn’t feel 
responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just 
didn’t want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would 
write to her parents and it would be all right. In the 
end, the Judge was persuaded that, if wrong-headed, ft 
was a romantic thing to do, and entered into it with 
spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding- 
dinner, in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. 
A wedding-gift to the young couple, a complete service 
of flat silver. And at the ceremony, in the little parlour 
of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard, the 
Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride 
away, and kissed her fair cheek. 




XI 


S UMMER lay hot and heavy on the prairie. Grass 
and trees were at their fullest, most intense green. 
They were full of sap, luxuriant—the heat had not 
begun to crisp them. But it hung like a blanket over the 
town. People sweltered and panted as they went about 
their business in the streets, where the slow creaking 
watering-cart could not keep down the dust. When 
dusk came they sat out on their porches, fanning them¬ 
selves and fighting mosquitos. It was not the custom 
to go away in summer, nobody thought of it. Life went 
on just the same, only at a more languid pace. In the 
yards facing the street roses were blooming and drooping. 

At Judge Baxter’s house all was long since in order. 
The outside had been repainted a clear white with 
bright green blinds, kept shut now all day against the 
heat, with the shutters open to admit any breath of air. 
Inside the half-light softened the newness of everything, 
the medley of bright colours which the Judge had got 
together. At night, shaded lamps Itoned down the 
glitter. 

Mary was constantly about the house, keeping it 
immaculate—she was slow, methodical and thorough. 
But with the Judge’s housekeeper to do the work in the 
hot kitchen, she felt that she was living in pampered 
luxury. It was not what she had expected for the begin¬ 
ning of her married life. Sometimes she vaguely regret¬ 
ted that things were not harder, more strenuous for her. 

73 



74 


PROUD LADY 


There were long hours that seemed vacant, with all she 
could do. Laurence was working hard. Three times 
a week he drove over to Elmville and spent the after¬ 
noon at the creamery. The rest of the time he was busy 
at the Judge’s office, he worked at night too over 
his law-books or papers. He did not mind the heat, he 
was in radiant health and spirits. 

There was not much social life in the town except for 
the boys and girls. Older people were supposed to stay 
at home. Married women were out of the game, they 
had their houses and children to attend to, and for 
relaxation, the church or gossip with a neighbour. The 
men had their business and an occasional visit to 
Chicago; they met in the bar of the tavern or the barber¬ 
shop, or at the lodge, if they were Masons. There was 
no general meeting-place, no restaurant or park. Very 
seldom did any citizen take a meal outside his own 
home. The Opera-house did not often open. There 
were a few dances, for the youth; older people did not 
go, even as chaperones, nor were they wanted at the 
straw-rides or picnics, nor in the front parlours where 
the girls received their beaux. Once married, a person 
retired into private life, so far as amusement was 
concerned. Anything else would have been scandal¬ 
ous. 

Mary did not feel these restrictions. She was, if not 
wholly content, at least for the moment satisfied; it 
was a pause. If not radiance, there was some sort of 
subdued glow about her, something that softened and 
lightened her look and manner. She was silent as ever, 
not more expressive, even more slow. Sometimes alone, 
she would give way to a dreamy languor. 




PROUD LADY 


75 


She never had been very social, and now she was less 
so. She saw few people, paid few visits. Friends of 
her own age she had none—she had always felt herself 
older than other girls. She went regularly to church 
and kept up the activities connected with it, and so 
constantly saw the minister. But here had come a 
distinct break; she had not talked with him at any 
length, or except about church-matters, since her 
marriage. She did not mean this break to be per¬ 
manent ; she knew that some time she would want 
to talk to him again, but just now she did not, 
and he did not seek her, even for an ordinary pas¬ 
toral visit. 

Each day she went in to see her parents, five minutes’ 
walk up the street, or one of them came to see her. 
They were quite reconciled now, though there had been 
sore scenes at first, after her return. Mrs. Lowell had 
wept bitterly, and told Mary that she was a selfish girl, 
who never thought of any one but herself, a bad daugh¬ 
ter who didn’t care how much she hurt her mother and 
father. At this Mary had cried too, not with sobs and 
gaspings, but just big slow tears rolling down her cheeks, 
as she sat looking unutterably injured. When she 
spoke, in answer to her mother’s long complaint, it was 
only to say gently; 

“But Mother, you know you never pretended to like 
Laurence or my marrying him, so why should I think 
you cared about the wedding? It wasn’t as if you’d 
been pleased, and liked it. Everybody could see you 
didn’t like it, so I thought the sooner it was over the 
better.” 

“Who says I don’t like Laurence?” Mrs. Lowell 




76 


PROUD LADY 


demanded hotly. “Don’t you see it was just the way to 
make the whole town believe it, running off that way! 
A pretty position it puts me in, and your father—as if 
you couldn’t be married at home, like other girls! As 
if we would have prevented you, if you were set on it! 
We would have given you as nice a wedding as any 
girl ever had here—” 

Then another burst of tears, at the end of which they 
found themselves in one another’s arms. Endearments 
were rare between them, but it was with great relief 
to both that they now kissed and made it up, for they 
did love one another. From that time it was understood 
that Mrs. Lowell was very fond of her son-in-law. 
Woe to the person who should dare say a word to the 
contrary or against him! He was now fully received 
into the family; his status was fixed for all time. The 
doctor had not made any scene; had welcomed them 
both warmly, as if nothing had happened. Indeed, 
Mary thought he was pleased. They had stayed for 
two weeks there, till the Judge’s house was ready; a 
satisfaction to Mrs. Lowell, as effectually giving the lie 
to any report that there was trouble in her family. 
And she had done her utmost, after the first day, to make 
things pleasant. By the end of the visit, Laurence was 
calling her “Mother,” and paying her compliments; 
every one was in good humour, the house gayer than it 
had ever been; and Mrs. Lowell was nearly in love with 
the scion of Irish bog-trotters. 

So Mary had no more defending of Laurence to do. 
It was understood that she was happy, that her husband 
was full of promise and well-befriended, and that every¬ 
body was satisfied. 




PROUD LADY 


77 


The Judge insisted that Laurence must help exercise 
his horses, so often, when work and the heat of the day 
were over, Laurence drove the trotters out over the 
prairie, with Mary in the buggy beside him. He 
handled the spirited horses with ease, and she felt per¬ 
fectly safe with him. He would talk to her at length of 
his day’s doings, of anything that came into his 
head, and she listened, not saying much. Sometimes he 
wanted her to talk, and she found she had nothing 
to say. Her inexpressiveness often bothered him, 
sometimes made him angry. He needed response 
and was impatient if he didn’t get it, in all things. 

He was ardent and tumultuous in his love, constantly 
wanting expression of love from her. He was demand¬ 
ing, impetuous, imperious in his desire. He could not 
have patience, he could not woo any longer, he must 
possess—all, to the uttermost, without reserve. His 
experience of women had not taught him to understand 
a nature like hers—less emotional than his own, really 
more sensual. His whole idea of women in general, 
of Mary in particular was opposed to this understand¬ 
ing—he would have reversed the judgment, and so would 
Mary. He thought Mary cold to love, and her coldness 
often made him brusque and overbearing. 

Yet he was very happy. He loved to be with her, to 
talk to her even when she did not answer, to look at her. 
He was proud of her beauty; liked to drive with her 
through the town or to walk with her on his arm; liked 
the admiring glances that followed her. He held his 
head high; consciousness of power, confidence in himself 
and his destiny, were strong in him. He felt that he 
could control the forces about him, as his powerful 




78 


PROUD LADY 


wrists controlled the horses, and drive them at his will, 
along the road he chose. 

Several times a week he saw Nora, the companion of 
his childhood, for she was working now in the creamery 
at Elmville. He had not met her that Sunday on the 
river road, for then he was in Chicago with Mary, and 
had forgotten all about Nora. But he had remembered 
her afterwards, and as she had lost her place in the store 
because she was not quick at figures, he had found a 
place for her at the creamery. He meant to look out 
for poor little Nora, had a desire to be kind to her. He 
had a quick sympathy for the weak and helpless, always; 
he was full of generous impulses, would kindle at any 
tale of distress or injustice and was ready to help. Part 
of his feeling for “the under dog” came by nature; 
part perhaps from his own circumstances in the years 
of sensitive youth. 

A deep mark had been left upon him by these early 
hardships—he hated and feared poverty. He was 
ambitious in a worldly and social way, he wanted to 
count among men, he wanted power; and he was deter¬ 
mined to be rich. His power was to be beneficent, his 
riches were to benefit others. Though he liked display 
and luxury, he liked better the feeling that he could 
be a mainstay and rock of refuge to those weaker than 
himself. He would be great, powerful, and generous. 

These ambitions and dreams came out clearly as he 
talked to Mary. But she did not echo them, only 
listened gravely. She did not sympathize with 
Laurence’s desire for worldly things, and she knew he 
would not sympathize with her indifference to them. 
When she expressed anything of the kind he would say 





PROUD LADY 


79 


with irritation that she knew nothing of the world and 
had better get some experience before she despised it. 
So after a few attempts, she gave np trying to talk to 
him about it. The time hadn’t come, she felt, Laurence’s 
spiritual eyes were not opened, he was bound to earthly 
vanities. Perhaps he would have to experience these 
things before he could despise them, see their nothing¬ 
ness. But she needn’t, she felt serenely that no ex¬ 
perience would change her point of view. She loved 
Laurence, but she nourished in her heart an ideal to 
which he did not correspond. A militant saint—that 
was her ideal. Not a man struggling for the goods of 
this world, but one who could put his feet upon them 
and whose vision was far beyond. A look of infinite re¬ 
moteness would come into her eyes sometimes and she 
would fall into abstraction; and Laurence, when this 
happened in his presence, would resent it instinctively 
and drag her out of it by making love to her or quar¬ 
relling with her, or both at once. 

But they had many happy hours together in the long 
drowsy twilightsi, many times of troubled exquisite 
sweetness in the dusk or the dark of still summer nights. 
Their youthful tenderness was stronger than any divi¬ 
sion of feeling; a deep unconscious bond was forming 
between them. 

Sometimes in the evenings, the heat and mosquitos 
would drive them indoors. Then in the dim light Mary 
would sit down at the piano. She did not play very well, 
her fingers were strong rather than skilful, but she sang 
old ballads in her husky contralto, for Laurence and 
Judge Baxter. 




80 


PROUD LADY 


The Judge had a sentimental passion for these songs, 
and as he sat and listened, pulling slowly at his cigar, he 
was happy, he had a feeling of home. His bare bach¬ 
elor existence had been cushioned, or he would have said, 
glorified by the tender touch of a woman. He had a 
chivalric affection for Mary, he admired her intensely. 
He and Laurence would sit with their eyes fixed upon 
her as she sang, on the clear outline of her cheek, her 
thick knot of burnished hair, her young figure, strong 
and stately, in the light flowing gown of white muslin. 
She sang “Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,” and 
“Oh, tell me if all those endearing young charms,’’ and 
other old-world songs. The two men listened raptly, the 
glowing tips of their cigars gathering thick cones of 
ashes. In the intervals of the song, a chorus of night- 
insects could be heard outside, shrilling in the grass and 
heavy-leaved trees. Or sometimes the low rumbling of 
thunder heralded an approaching storm. 




XII 


O N an August afternoon, Mary walked languidly 
up the street to her father’s house. She was 
bare-headed, dressed in a plain white muslin, and 
carried a small parasol, though the sun was hidden in a 
thick haze. It was about four o’clock. All day the 
heat had been intense, the air was thick, motionless, stif¬ 
ling. The greyish haze hung low and heavy, and dark¬ 
ened steadily. 

It was as though all the heat of the summer, of all the 
long monotonous summer days, had been gathered up, 
concentrated in that one day; as if it hung there between 
the baked earth and the thick blanket of cloud sinking 
lower and lower, pressing down. 

There was no feeling of space. The prairie was stag¬ 
nant, torpid—nothing stirred on it, except the small ant¬ 
like motions of men. The horizons of the vast plain 
had disappeared. . . . 

Day follows day, each with its little occupations, 
orderly, monotonous, peaceful. Some little corner of 
the world seems a safe place to live in—shut in upon 
itself, shut out from disturbance—perhaps too safe. 
Life may grow dull and languid, sometimes, even when 
new pulses are stirring in it, grow faint. Long summer 
days, one like another, each with its weight of humid 
heat, pile up a burden. . . . 

Vast unbroken spaces are dangerous. Beyond that 

curtain of sullen mist, who knows what is brewing? 

81 



82 


PROUD LADY 


Unknown forces, long gathering and brooding, strike 
suddenly out of darkness. That infinite monotony of 
the prairie breeds violence—long suppressed, breaking 
at last. . . . 

Mary found her mother sitting on the porch, gasping, 
fanning herself with a palm-leaf. 

“What a day—the worst yet/’ moaned Mrs. Lowell. 
“Have a glass of lemonade, Mary? I made some for 
your father. It’s on the dining-room table.” 

“Where is Father?” 

Mary dropped into the hammock, panting. 

“He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. 
There’s going to be a storm.” 

Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breath¬ 
ing heavily. 

“How pale you are! What ails you, child?” Mrs. 
Lowell asked with alarm. 

“Nothing—the heat—” 

‘ ‘ Don't you want the lemonade ? I '11 get it for 
you—” 

“No, no—I'll go in a minute—” 

But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. 
When she brought the lemonade, Mary sat up with a 
faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. Lowell 
stood looking at her with watchful tenderness. 

“There isn't anything the matter, is there? You 
ought to be careful, this hot weather, and not overdo, 
Mary. ’' 

“No, it isn’t anything—" 

Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to 
her chair. 

“Laurence is over at Elmville,” said Mary languidly. 





PROUD LADY 


83 


“I’m afraid he’ll get caught in the storm. How dark 
it’s getting.” 

She looked out at the low cloud that thickened 
momently and that now was clotting into black masses 
against a greenish grey. The rattle of the doctor’s old 
buggy was heard approaching; he drove rapidly in past 
the house. His horse was sweating heavily and flecked 
with foam. They caught a glimpse of his pale face as 
he passed. 

“Thank goodness,” murmured Mrs. Lowell. “Per¬ 
haps we’d better go in.” 

But she remained, gazing at the clouds. A few people 
went by, more hurriedly than usual. It was almost 
dark now, a strange twilight. Mary left the hammock 
and came to look up at the sky. Up there were masses 
of cloud in tumult, but down below not a breath of air 
stirred. 

“How queer it looks—I wish Laurence was home. 
He starts about this time,” she said uneasily. 

‘ ‘ Oh, he ’ll wait till it’s over. ... I wonder why your 
father doesn’t come in. . . .” 

Mary turned and entered the house, but the doctor 
was not there, and she went on out into the garden. At 
the door of the stable she saw the horse hitched, he had 
not been unharnessed. Dr. Lowell stood there, looking 
up. She went quickly along the path to him. 

‘Say, Mary, this looks mighty queer. We’re going to 
have a big wind,” he called to her. “You better go in.” 

“Well, why don’t you come in? Aren’t you going to 
unhitch ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I suppose so, ’ ’ he said with a worried glance. 
“Satan acted like the very deuce on the way home—” 





PROUD LADY 


84 


He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully. 

“I suppose I’ll have to put him in there. I don’t 
know but we’re going to get a twister.” 

He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the 
stable, and then, holding the sweating, stamping horse 
firmly by the halter, led him in, but did not take off the 
harness. He shut the stable-door and joined Mary, 
gazing 1 up at the boiling black clouds, which cast green¬ 
ish gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh 
and full of blossom by his labours. The yellow of late 
summer had begun to shoot through its green, but it was 
still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, and many- 
coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and 
flowers looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor 
took Mary by the arm and they went in. Mrs. Lowell 
was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a furnace 
in the house. The cellar-door stood open. 

“It’s cooler down there,” suggested Mrs. Lowell in 
a trembling voice. 

“Well, we may have to,” the doctor responded calmly, 
helping himself to lemonade. 

Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The 
passers-by were running now, teams went by at a gallop. 
Then it was as if a great sighing breath passed over, the 
trees waved and tossed their leaves, and then—the wind 
struck. 

In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, 
leaves, branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like 
the sea in storm. All was blurred outside the windows, 
the house shook and seemed to shift on its foundations, 
blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire. 

Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother’s 




PROUD LADY 


85 


face, white and scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her 
away, shouted something. But she wrenched her arm 
loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story 
windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the 
trees bent down and streaming, dim shapes in the visible 
darkness driving past. There was still another stair, 
narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed up there. 
From the small window in the eaves she could see over 
the tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, 
the roar of the wind seemed to burst through the walls, 
but she crouched by the low window, heedless. She 
started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there 
beside her. She made room for him at the window, and 
pointed out, turning to him a white face of terror. 

The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was 
lifting. The outer fringe of the storm-cloud had swept 
them—but out there on the prairie, miles away, they 
could see now— 

There it was, a murky green and black boiling centre 
in the sky, and shooting down from it, trailing over the 
earth, something like a long twisting finger— 

An instant’s vision of it. Then there came a deluge 
of rain, beating on the sloping roof. Through the 
streaming window nothing could be seen. The doctor 
raised Mary and led her down the stair, she clung to 
him without a word. On the second floor they found 
Mrs. Lowell, about to mount in search of them, trem¬ 
bling with fright. 

‘ 4 It’s all over, Mother,” shouted the doctor through 
the drumming of the rain. “We only got the edge 
of it.” 




86 


PROUD LADY 


They went down to the lower floor. Now it was per¬ 
ceptibly lighter. The cloud fringe sweeping like a huge 
broom was passing as swiftly as it had come. The rain 
lessened in force, the grey outside brightened. The 
doctor and his wife looked at one another, and both 
looked at Mary, who stood beside a window staring out. 

‘‘Now, Mother,” said Dr. Lowell briskly, “you get 
me a sandwich or something, I’ve got to start out. 
Mary! help your mother, will you? You might as well 
fill up a basket, as quick as you can—put in anything 
you ’ve got, in five minutes—don’t know how long I may 
be—” 

He was already fastening his rubber coat, his old hat 
jammed down on his head. Mary followed her mother, 
blindly obeying her quick directions in the kitchen. The 
basket was packed by the time the doctor came out with 
his medicine-chest and a big roll of surgical dressings. 

“Where you going?” Mrs. Lowell then demanded. 

“There’ll be some damage where that thing struck,” 
said the doctor cheerfully. “I’m going over there. 
Don’t you sit up for me, I may be all night. You 
better keep Mary here, till Laurence comes for her. ’ ’ 

But Mary was putting on an old cloak of her mother’s 
that hung in the entry. 

“I’m going with you. Laurence is over there,” she 
said. 

Mrs. Lowell started to protest, but looking at Mary’s 
face, stopped, and went to get a scarf to tie over her 
hair. The doctor said nothing, but went to hitch up his 
horse and put a feed of grain into the back of the buggy. 
They started. Satan indicated his displeasure at the 
turn of things by rearing up in the shafts and then try- 




PROUD LADY 


87 


ing to kick the dashboard in; but the doctor gave him the 
whip and he decided to go. 

The road was mud-puddles, ruts and gullies, and 
strewn with branches, sometime great boughs or fence- 
rails lay across it. Other people were on the way now. 
Satan passed everything going in their direction. Salu¬ 
tations and comments were shouted at the doctor. Then 
they began to meet people coming the other way; the 
doctor did not stop to talk, but a man called to him that 
Elmville had been wiped out by the cyclone. 

Two miles on they came to a cluster of houses where 
a crowd had gathered, most of them refugees who had 
fled before the storm. Two houses here had been un¬ 
roofed, sheds blown away, and the place was littered 
with splinters, but nobody was seriously hurt. From 
there on they met a stream of people, nearly all the 
population of Elmville, including the people from the 
creamery who had escaped into the prairie laden with 
whatever goods they could carry. Then they reached 
the last buildings left standing by the storm—a farm¬ 
house and barns, by some freak of the wind untouched, 
a mile from Elmville. These were crowded with people 
from the town, mostly women and children, and a few 
men, some of them injured. The doctor pulled up his 
horse and shouted an inquiry for Laurence. Oh, Cap¬ 
tain Carlin was all right, he had been there when the 
storm struck, had started home but decided he couldn’t 
make it and stopped there—he had driven back now to 
see what he could do, and most of the men had gone after 
him. Wouldn’t the doctor come in? One of the men 
had a broken leg and there was a woman with her head 




88 


PROUD LADY 


hurt by a flying brick, they thought she would die. The 
doctor hesitated. Mary said: 

“You stay, Father, I’ll drive on and find Laurence.” 

“You drive Satan! You couldn’t hold him a minute!” 

“I’ll drive him.” 

He looked at her, realized that she was quite irra¬ 
tional, called out that he would come back, and drove on. 

The storm had come at an angle to the road, so the 
wreckage of the town had blown the other way, but 
where its buildings had stood, with the tall brick factory 
in their midst, the sky-line was now absolutely empty. 

They came on Laurence’s horse, tied to a fallen tree, 
and then Laurence himself came running toward them, 
out of a group of men who were lifting timbers. Mary 
was out of the buggy and in his arms in a moment, 
sobbing on his shoulder, clinging to him wildly, the rain 
falling on her bare head. She hid her face against his 
wet coat, not to see the desolation around her. But then 
after a little she raised her head and looked over his 
shoulder, her eyes full of the terror of death that had 
passed so near, that had threatened to strike to her 
heart. . . . 

A rubbish-heap, in which men were frantically dig¬ 
ging for the wounded and dead, was all that was left of 
the town. A heap of splintered boards and bricks, with 
pitiful odds and ends of household furniture mixed in. 
Not a wall was standing, not one brick left on another, 
all was levelled to the earth. 

The wind had roared away across the prairie and there, 
somewhere in the midst of vast spaces, it would vanish. 
Over beyond, now, near the horizon, a rift had opened 
in the grey clouds, and through it was visible a long belt 
of blue sky—serene, limpid, smiling. 




PART TWO 









I 


C ARLIN walked with a quick firm step across the 
square from the courthouse to his office in the 
bank building. His usually ruddy face was pale, 
his eyes gleamed with excitement under the brim of his 
soft felt hat. He made his way through the crowd 
that filled the street before the jail without halting, shak¬ 
ing off impatiently some attempts to stop him, nodding 
or shaking his head for all answer to questions shouted 
at him. 

It was a bright spring day. For the second time 
since his marriage the maples round the square were 
putting out their brilliant young leaves. But there was 
no brightness in the throng under the maples. A sombre 
excitement moved them, a low-toned angry murmur fol¬ 
lowed Carlin’s progress. It was hardly personal to him, 
however, or only faintly, doubtfully so. He was recog¬ 
nized respectfully, and responded with curt nods, or 
sometimes a quick lifting of his hand, like a military 
salute. 

He ran up the steps into his own office, and through 
this to Judge Baxter’s, entering with a quick rap on the 
glass, closing the door sharply behind him. The Judge 
was alone, writing at his desk, and looked round rather 
absently, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead. 
Carlin flung his hat on the rickety sofa in the corner and 
standing by the desk, his hands thrust deep in his 

pockets, frowning, he said firmly: 

91 


92 


PROUD LADY 


“Judge, we must take this case.” 

The Judge looked at him now with attention, but with¬ 
out answering. Resistance showed in his face, but he 
put out his lower lip and thoughtfully shifted his quid 
of tobacco from one cheek to the other. 

‘ ‘ He sent for me and I was admitted to see him, as his 
counsel/’ Laurence went on in the same quick urgent 
tone. “And then—we must do it, that’s all.” 

The Judge looked at the sheet of paper before him, 
half-filled with his crabbed painstaking writing, laid 
down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. 

“Why?” he demanded coolly. 

“My God, Judge!” Carlin burst out. 

With an effort to master himself, he turned away and 
walked several times across the floor. 

“If you’d seen the man—if you’d heard him! . . . 
I’m all smashed up by it,” he confessed huskily, stop¬ 
ping and staring out of the window. 

“I see you are,” said the Judge. “Have a drink?” 

Carlin shook his head. But the Judge, opening a 
cupboard in his desk, took out a bottle and one glass, 
poured a stiff allowance of whiskey and tossed it off 
neat. 

“I’m glad you don’t drink much, Laurence,” he 
remarked as he put away the glass. “With your ex¬ 
citable temperament you couldn’t stand it.” 

As Carlin stood silent, staring out, the Judge 
addressed his back. 

“I don’t like murder cases—never did. Never could 
do anything with ’em. My clients were hanged, every 
time—that was long ago. ... I haven’t touched a crim¬ 
inal case for—well, years. I’m no jury lawyer. We 




PROUD LADY 


93 


don’t want to go into that, Laurence . . . and then, the 
fellow’s a brute.” 

“No—no! ... Wait until I tell you about it. . . .” 

Laurence turned round. His tone was calmer but he 
still looked deeply agitated, and began to pace the floor 
again. 

“Well, take your time. . . . But I can’t see what it 
is to you,” said Judge Baxter curiously. 

His genial shrewd old face expressed a somewhat 
cynical perplexity. If he had ever been deeply moved 
by human passion and folly, he had forgotten it—for 
many years it had been only a spectacle to him. All 
crimes spring from love, so-called, or money. One of 
these two great mainsprings the Judge understood thor¬ 
oughly. He knew all about human cupidity. He had 
made his own fortune out of the desire of some of his 
fellow-beings to over-reach others, and this golden 
fountain would never run dry. The Judge had all the 
law of property at his fingers’ ends. His ability to help 
a corporation to use the law was abundantly recognized 
and recompensed. He was a noted railroad counsel. 
Why turn aside from this safe and profitable concern 
with people’s purses, to meddle with the wild impulses of 
their hearts, so-called? 

“You say you don’t see what it is to me,” Carlin be¬ 
gan, turning abruptly. “But I know the man, if you 
remember. He was in my company—one of the best in 
it too—I knew him well—that’s why he thought of me, I 
suppose. . . . But even if I hadn’t known him, if I’d 
seen any man as he was this morning, if any man talked 
to me as he did. ... I never heard anything like it—I 
never saw anything so friendless, forlorn. . . . He’s like 


1 




94 


PROUD LADY 


a lost beaten dog—there isn’t a soul in the world that 
isn’t against him. ...” 

“Well, that’s right, I guess,” said the Judge cau¬ 
tiously. ‘‘He’s worse than friendless.” He turned his 
head toward the window, giving ear to the noise from the 
street—a low continuous murmur. “That crowd means 
trouble. . . . When do they take him out ? ’ ’ 

“By the afternoon train. The Sheriff thinks he can 
do it—he’s got thirty deputies sworn in. ’ ’ 

“I’ve never seen a lynching here,” said the Judge, 
getting up and going to the window. “But—we came 
pretty near it once or twice during the war. It looked 
a good deal like this, too. . . . You see, our people don’t 
make an awful lot of noise about a thing—when they 
mean business, they’re quiet.” 

The two men stood side by side, looking down on the 
square, which was by now closely packed. 

“Well, I guess we’ll get him out just the same,” said 
Carlin grimly. 

“ ‘We’?” 

“They won’t get him if I can help it. . . . But I’d 
like to know why they leant to—don’t understand a mob 
getting up like this about it—” 

“It runs like wildfire, once it starts. . . . Perhaps 
the boys want some excitement, we haven’t had much 
lately. And then,” said the Judge emphatically, “they 
don’t like it. It was an unprovoked brutal murder of 
a woman—a good hardworking woman, with little chil¬ 
dren to look after—and this fellow comes back, takes to 
drinking, quarrels with his wife and smashes her head 
with an ax—by God, if they want to string him up, I 
don’t blame them! ’ ’ 





PROUD LADY 


95 




“Look here, Judge, you’re just like the rest of them, 
you don’t understand, you don’t know! A man doesn’t 
smash his wife with an ax for nothing —” 

“If you’re going to try to justify him—” 

“No, he doesn’t want that, neither do I. He’s a lost 
man and he knows it. . . . All he seemed to want of me 
was to have one human being understand it—just to tell 
me about it. He doesn’t want to get off, he wants 
to die.” 

Carlin’s intense blue eyes held the Judge’s unwilling 
gaze; they both forgot the crowd outside, turned from 
the window. The Judge sat down again at his desk. 

“Well, tell me about it,” he said reluctantly. “But 
I’m sorry to see you so worked up. ... I really don’t 
see how we could handle a case like this, even if we had 
a chance to do anything with it. I tell you it isn’t the 
thing, it’s all off my beat—you know it. And you’re just 
getting your start, and to handicap yourself right off 
with an unpopular case where you haven’t the ghost of 
a show, where feeling’s dead against you—no, Laurence, 
my boy, I oughtn’t to let you—we can’t do it! ” 

Laurence drew a chair to the other side of the desk, 
facing the Judge. 

ll li we can’t, I’ll try it alone,” he said quietly. “All 
I want for Barclay is a hearing—just to have his side of 
it known, that’s all. He’ll have to pay the penalty, of 
course—he’ll get life imprisonment at least and I’m not 
sure he wouldn’t rather be hanged, in fact I’m sure he 
would, now. . . . But he did have provocation—if you 
could get anybody to see it.” 

“Well, see if you can get me to see it. I guess that’s 
a good test, 9 ’ said the Judge coolly. “I’m as prejudiced 




96 


PROUD LADY 


against him as anybody. I wouldn’t lynch him, maybe 
—but I don’t want you to lose your first important 
case. ’ ’ 

He leaned back in his chair and fixed his old, wise, 
wary eyes on Carlin, who, quite calm now, had an ab¬ 
stracted look. 

“Well, to begin I’d have to tell you what I knew 
about Barclay before this. . . . He was in the first com¬ 
pany to go from here—enlisted for three months, you 
know. Just dropped his tools and went—he was a 
machinist, making good wages, had a nice little home 
here, wife and two children. They were dependent on 
him, but the wife was sturdy and said she guessed they 
could get along somehow—and they did. She got work 
and people helped them, and she kept up the home. 
Barclay was awfully proud of her and the youngsters— 
another one was born after he went. He used to show me 
their pictures and talk about them. He was good at 
machinery—it was the only thing he did know—he was 
a gunner in my battery later and a good one. Strong 
as a horse and he’d fight like the devil when things got 
hot. A big fellow, good-natured too and kind of simple- 
minded—soft, you might say, except when he was fight¬ 
ing or drunk. He didn’t seem to have but two ideas in 
his head—one was the war and the other was his family. 
He re-enlisted, of course, and went through the whole 
thing, but he was homesick all the time. He used to 
write home whenever he could, and when he didn’t get 
letters as often as he thought he ought to, he’d come to 
me and worry, and ask if I’d heard and so on. ... I’m 
telling you this, Judge,” Carlin looked earnestly at the 
Judge’s impassive face, “so you can understand what 




PROUD LADY 


97 


sort of a man he was and what his home meant to him— 
just everything, outside of what he was fighting for. 
That man made a real sacrifice, because he thought it 
his duty. He felt it all the time, but he thought the 
country needed him, and he had to do it, and he had a 
pride in it too—he didn’t look for any reward, but I sup¬ 
pose he thought what he did would be appreciated some¬ 
how—anyhow he didn’t expect to lose out altogether by 
it ” 

Carlin stopped for a moment, frowning till his eyes 
showed only a blue glint. 

“Lots of us that went were remembered,” he said 
slowly, “and some—were forgotten.” 

He picked up a pencil and began scoring deep lines 
on a sheet of paper. 

“Four years is a good slice out of a man’s life. He 
loses a lot—in his life, his work—other men get the start 
of him—he’s far away, and perhaps will never come 
back, and they’re here. . . . When a man gives that 
much, and risks everything, in what seems a holy cause 
to him, it seems as if—it seems as if—” 

His voice trembled. The Judge was watching him 
now intently. He got up and began to walk the floor 
again. 

“You see, Judge, that’s natural—to want to have 
some recognition of what you’ve done. And I know a 
lot of our fellows felt that the people at home didn’t 
recognize it. They made a lot of fuss about us when 
we went away, but when we came back—those of us that 
did come back—they didn’t get excited much about 
us. 

“They were busy—they’d been living their lives in 




98 


PROUD LADY 


peace while we were fighting and protecting them— we 
stood between them and the enemy and most of them 
never felt what war is. They might know about it, but 
they didn’t feel it, we saved them from that. . . . Then 
when we came back, sometimes they were glad to see us, 
sometimes not. Anyhow, we had to scramble around 
and see what we could do, to make a living, to get back 
the place we’d lost. Lots of us found it hard. It wasn’t 
only the time lost, but those four years of war made a 
difference in us, sometimes for the better, sometimes for 
the worse. ...” 

“Surely,” said Judge Baxter, nodding. 

“You see, Judge, it upsets all a man’s habits and way 
of living. You can’t make a good soldier of a man 
without loosening up some things in him that are 
usually kept down. He faces violent death every day, 
and he kills. It’s a primitive thing, war is, and men 
get back to where they were. They suffer and they try 
to make the other fellow suffer more, they get callous, 
savage, lots of them. Then when they come back to 
civilized life, it’s hard for them to fit in. I wonder there 
wasn’t more trouble than there was, I wonder that 
that great army, nearly a million men, melted away as 
quietly as it did. . . . Judge, it was a great thing that 
we did—” 

Carlin stopped and fixed his eyes on the Judge, who 
nodded gravely. 

“We felt it so at the time, at least very many of us 
did, and looking back, we can see how big a thing it 
was. We fought the good fight, we crushed something 
evil, that would have destroyed our country. Every 




PROUD LADY 


99 


man in our army has a right to be proud of it, proud 
of himself, if he did his best ... he has a right to be 
remembered. . . .” 

“Yes, surely,” said Judge Baxter, with the same 
grave intentness, his keen eyes watching Carlin’s every 
look and motion. 

There was a brief silence. 

“Well,” said Carlin, drawing a deep breath. “Bar¬ 
clay was forgotten. . . . The last year, letters were 
scarce. We were on the jump and then we went down 
into Georgia. ... I don’t know just what happened 
here. He doesn’t make any accusation against his wife, 
though it seems there was somebody else she liked. But 
she’d settled her life without him. She could support 
the family and she’d got used to doing without him. 
Perhaps she never cared so much for him as he thought. 
But yet if he’d been here, probably it would have gone 
along all right. But he wasn’t, you see. . . . And she 
heard things about him too. He was in the guardhouse 
a few times for drinking, and somebody else would men¬ 
tion it in writing home. . . . All that came out after he 
got back.” 

Carlin was still walking about restlessly under the 
Judge’s watchful gaze. 

“When he got back he found he wasn’t wanted— 
that’s all. His wife could do without him, and pre¬ 
ferred to. His children were little—they’d forgotten 
him. There was a baby he’d never seen. He felt like 
a stranger in the house. And she made him feel it! 
At first he couldn’t realize it, and tried to have it all 
as it was before—but it was no use. 'She didn’t want 


* > 







100 


PROUD LADY 


him there. . . . Well, I suppose you can’t see what that 
meant to him—” 

“Yes, I can,” said the Judge. 

“It was all he had, you know. And she’d taken it 
away from him—the children and all. He could see 
that if he’d never come back, if he’d been killed, she 
would have married this other man, and never missed 
him. He saw that she wished he hadn’t come back. 
In fact—she told him so, after they got to quarrel¬ 
ling 

iiiip • • • • 

“That was pretty bad,” muttered the Judge. 

“And he still loved her, you see. Otherwise he’d have 
gone away again. But he wanted her and the children. 
So he took to drinking—” 

“Why, naturally.” 

“He took to drinking hard and didn’t work— 
couldn’t. And he made the house miserable, of course. 
They quarrelled terribly, he beat her. . . . She re¬ 
proached him for being a useless drunken loafer, spoil¬ 
ing her life and the children’s—then she told him she 
wished he’d died. ... It was after that. ...” 

Carlin was silent. The Judge nodded his white head 
and said abruptly: “Yes, the poor simpleton—lost his 
head.” 

“He doesn’t remember how it happened—he was 
drunk. But he doesn’t deny it—can’t, of course,” 
said Carlin in a low voice. “He said to me that he 
could hardly believe it ... he’d always loved her . . . 
he said it didn’t seem possible he could have hurt 
her ... he thought he must have been crazy ... he 
wished he had been killed down south, then it wouldn’t 
have happened and she would have been happy, and the 




PROUD LADY 


101 


children taken care of, while now. . . . And then he 
cried. . . 

Carlin’s voice broke, and he turned away to the win¬ 
dow. The Judge’s eyes followed him eagerly, dwelt on 
his bent head, his bowed shoulders for some moments. 

‘ 1 The poor fool, ’ ’ he said, taking off his spectacles and 
looking at them critically. 

“Judge, it was an awful thing to see—that big fellow, 
all crumpled up like a wet rag—broken, crushed—help¬ 
less as a baby,—not a soul to put out a hand to him—and 
he was sinking, lost—lost forever. . . . And a good man 
too, that’s the mystery . . . why, Judge, anybody might 
have acted that way— might have ... if people could 
only see that, feel it. ... 

The Judge had polished his spectacles to a nicety and 
now put them on and stood up. 

“Well, Laurence, I guess you can make them feel it— 
I guess you can, my boy! ” he burst out. 

His broad face lighted up with enthusiasm, with pro¬ 
fessional ardour. 

“Laurence, you were right and I was wrong. If you 
feel the thing as much as this, it’s a chance for you. 
Nothing counts so much with a jury as feeling—real 
feeling—and you’ve got it. We’ll take that case and 
you shall make the address—I’m not a jury-lawyer my¬ 
self, but I know one when I see him! You won’t save 
your man, Laurence, but many a reputation has been 
made in a lost cause!” 

And the Judge, advancing, took Carlin’s hand and 
shook it warmly. Carlin looked at him with troubled, 
bewildered eyes, and the Judge clapped him on the 
shoulder briskly. 




102 


PROUD LADY 


“Laurence, my boy, I knew you had it in you!” he 
cried. 

“I’m not taking this case to distinguish myself,” 
Carlin said angrily. 

“No, no, of course not—that makes it all the better!” 
the Judge assured him, with the utmost cheerfulness. 

But suddenly he became grave again and pondered. 

“If the boys try anything it will be when they take 
him to the train,” he reflected. 

“I’m going home now to get a bite of dinner—then 
I’ll be on hand if there’s trouble. You coming, Judge?” 
Carlin took up his hat. 

“I’ve got a letter to finish—then I’ll be along. But, 
say, Laurence—” 

The Judge stopped on the way to his desk. 

‘ ‘ Mary—she won’t like this. ’ ’ 

Laurence was at the door, and turned a disturbed 
look on the Judge. 

“No, she won’t. She liked Mrs. Barclay.” 

“She won’t like our defending him.” 

“I’ll explain—there’s a lot she doesn’t know—I’ll 
tell her and she’ll understand.” Carlin’s tone had not 
much conviction. 

“Well, perhaps,” said the Judge dubiously. 




II 


I N Carlin’s household there were now two children. 
The family still lived at the Judge’s house; he had 
resisted firmly their attempts to leave him. He 
had turned over the whole house to them, reserving only 
two rooms on the ground floor for himself, and by now 
he had established himself as a member of the family. 
There was no more thought of breaking up the arrange¬ 
ment. 

Carlin reached the house a little before the dinner 
hour. He found his eldest son carefully penned up on 
the porch, exercising his fat legs by rushes from side to 
side of his enclosure. In a chair beside the pen sat 
Mary, with the new baby at her breast. In spite of 
his hurry and preoccupation, Carlin smiled with pleas¬ 
ure at the group, stopped to hold out a finger to the 
tottering golden-haired boy, bent to kiss Mary, looking 
tenderly at her and the small blonde head against her 
bosom. The baby was but three weeks old. Mary had 
still about her the soft freshness and radiance of new 
motherhood. She was pale, her tall figure had not yet 
regained its firm lines, but her beauty was at its best. 
She had borne her children easily and happily. The 
fuller oval of her face, her soft heavy-lidded eyes and 
the new tenderness of her mouth, expressed the quiet 
joy of fulfilment, satisfaction. 

‘ * I must hurry back—-can I have a bite to eat now ? ’ ’ 
Carlin asked softly, touching the baby’s tiny hand out¬ 
spread on Mary’s breast. 


103 



104 


PROUD LADY 


“Dinner’s nearly ready—I’ll see. He’s asleep.” 

“He’s always asleep, when he isn’t eating, and some¬ 
times then,” commented Carlin, smiling. 

“So he ought to be,” said Mary calmly. 

She rose with caution, and carried the baby indoors, 
the frills of her muslin robe billowing about her. Both 
parents smiled as a wail from the deserted first-born 
followed them. They had a robust attitude toward the 
young James, and he was used to solitary communing 
with himself in his pen, but didn’t like it. Mary carried 
the baby into the Judge’s bedroom and laid him on the 
bachelor’s bed. The Judge liked to have his room used 
in this way; it delighted him to find articles of infant’s 
attire, or toys belonging to young James, in his quar¬ 
ters. He often said that he was getting all the 
feeling of being a family man without any of the 
bother. 

Mary went into the kitchen to hurry the stolid Swe¬ 
dish cook, and Carlin ran lightly upstairs. When Mary 
came up to arrange her hair and dress, a moment later, 
she found him loading his army revolver, which he per¬ 
sisted in keeping in his top bureau drawer among his 
neckties. 

“What’s that for?” she asked quickly. 

Carlin looked at her with concern, wishing to break 
the matter gently to her, for it had been deeply im¬ 
pressed upon him that to disturb Mary was to disturb 
the baby also, and that any interference with her 
sacred function was a crime—sacrilege, in fact. He 
hesitated. 

“I know—it’s that Barclay! . . . But what are you 
going to do?” 





PROUD LADY 


105 


“Why—there may be some trouble getting him out 
of town—” 

“Yes, I heard about it. But why do you—” 

“Well, I’m sworn in as a deputy to defend him, if—” 

1 ‘ Laurence!’ ’ 

“Yes, defend him—he’s going to have a fair trial, 
if I—and look here, Mary, I might as well tell 
you, the Judge and I are going to defend him at the 
trial. ’ 9 

Paler than before, she laid down her comb and gazed 
at him. He finished loading the revolver and slipped 
a box of cartridges into his pocket. 

“Defend that man? I don’t believe you mean it, 
Laurence, the Judge wouldn’t.” 

“Yes, he would. You ask him. ... I haven’t time to 
tell you all about it now, Mary, I must eat and run. 
Come downstairs.” 

Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin 
took the opposite tack and spoke with curt military 
command. In silence Mary turned to the glass, fastened 
her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. In no 
circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the 
stairs after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the 
dining-room, and the awkward Swedish girl brought in 
the dinner. Mary silently filled Carlin’s plate. He 
began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, winded 
from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted 
Mary rather apologetically, as he tucked his napkin un¬ 
der his beard. 

“Laurence tell you?” he panted. “Now don’t get 
mad, Mary—seems as if we’d have to do it. Explain 
to you later.” 




106 


PROUD LADY 


Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge 
his plate. 

“I’m not ‘mad’—but I certainly don’t understand 
why you and Laurence want to defend a brute like that 
man. When I think of poor Sarah Barclay, working 
and slaving away, and those poor little children—I 
can’t see how you can do it!” 

She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eat¬ 
ing in haste and left the Judge to reply. 

“Now, Mary, you don’t understand—don’t know his 
side of it—” 

“His side of it—a drunken worthless brute—Judge, 
I wonder at you, defending murder!” 

“No, not murder—no, I don’t defend murder, cer¬ 
tainly not—” 

“You’ve just said you would! The murder of a help¬ 
less woman, with little children depending on her!” 

Mary’s grey eyes blazed with anger, and the Judge, 

« 

cowed, continued to splutter excuses with his mouth 
full. 

“Now, Mary! I tell you I don’t defend what he did! 
But he did have something on his side, she didn’t treat 
him well—?” 

4 ‘ Treat him well! He came back, wouldn’t work, took 
her money for drink, beat her—Judge, I’m ashamed of 
you, to make excuses for such a man!” 

The Judge, not liking his post of whipping-boy, 
glanced reproachfully at the real culprit. Carlin 
pushed back his chair and lit a cigar. 

“Don’t abuse the Judge, I got him to do it,” he said 
coolly. “And I did it because I was sorry for the man 
and because he hasn’t a friend on earth, nobody to look 





PROUD LADY 


107 


to but me, and he isn’t half so bad as you think. But 
you’ve made up your mind and you don’t want to hear 
anything on the other side. You just want him pun¬ 
ished.” 

‘ ‘ Of course I do! ” she cried. 

“Well, now, I can’t understand why you good church- 
people are so hard on sinners. Your religion doesn’t 
teach that.” 

Mary flushed slowly at the bitterness of this speech. 

“It doesn’t teach us to defend sin,” she answered. 
“But I don’t think you know what it does teach.” 

“ Perhaps not. But I seem to remember something 
about there being more joy in heaven over one sinner 
who repents than over ninety-nine just men—in heaven, 
of course, not on earth.” 

“ Repents, yes—” 

“Well, Barclay repents all right. . . . But the good 
people of this town don’t want to give him any time 
to repent, you see. They’re in a great hurry to send 
him, with all his imperfections on his head, to—well, I 
suppose they think he’d go straight to hell. That’s why 
I’ve got to go right back.” 

He got up, went round to Mary and bent to kiss her. 

“I’m sorry you don’t like my doing this, but I’ve got 
to do it,” he said gently. 

She did not respond, but sat looking straight before 
her. He started away, then came back. 

“Mary—kiss me good-bye.” 

Something in his tone pierced through her frozen 
resentment. She met his look of anxious love, a sorrow¬ 
ful troubled look—the kiss was given. He hurried out. 

The Judge hated to be disturbed at his meals, he 




108 


PROUD LADY 

was making a very bad dinner. He said pettishly: 

“I’ve got to go right away too—I’ll take some pie, 
please. ... I wish people wouldn’t get up a fuss at 
dinner-time. ’ ’ 

Mary looked at him absently and handed him the 
bread. 

“Pie, please! . . . Now, you see, Mary, I was against 
it at the start,” the Judge explained rapidly, after get¬ 
ting what he wanted. “As you know, I’ve never taken 
criminal cases, and I didn’t want Laurence to get the 
whole town down on him—for he will, you know, at the 
beginning. . . . But do you know why I changed my 
mind? You may believe I had a good reason—say, 
Mary, are you listening?” 

“Well? You were saying you had a good reason.” 

“Well, sometimes it pays to go against public feeling. 
It gets a man noticed, anyway. And if he believes 
enough in his side and can put it over on all the other 
fellows—why, then, you know, it’s a real success. . . . 
And I found out today that Laurence can do it—that is, 
I believe he can. Mary, that boy has lots of talent, lots 
of it. . . . Why, look here, he nearly made me cry today, 
talking about that Barclay,—and yet I believe the man’s 
a low-down skunk, just as you do. . . . You just let 
Laurence get at a jury, with that feeling he’s got, that 
sympathy, that simple way of appealing to their 
emotions—why, he might almost get the man off! 
Anyhow, he’ll make a reputation, Mary, there isn’t a 
doubt— ’ ’ 

“I don’t want him to make a reputation doing what’s 
wrong! ’ ’ 

“Wrong? Why, Mary, it isn’t wrong to defend a 




PROUD LADY 


109 


criminal! The law insists that he be defended, it’s a 
sacred part of our legal system. They wouldn’t think 
of hanging him unless he was properly defended. Some- 
body’ll have to do it. And Laurence believes he’s right 
to do it—that’s what makes him so strong. There’s 
nothing like having right on your side—that is, I mean, 
believing you have it, of course—” 

“Then Laurence thinks the man was right to murder 
his wife ? ’ ’ Mary said ironically. 

“No, no, dash it all!—oh, well, you can’t explain 
things to a woman,” groaned the Judge. “Excuse me, 
Mary, I’ve got to get back—” 

He took off his napkin, and rose, sighing. 

“But I should think you’d be proud of Laurence,” he 
added as he moved ponderously to the door. “To think 
he’s willing to face public disapproval, take all sorts of 
risks, just to stand by that poor hunted beast—run into 
danger— ’ ’ 

“Danger?” 

She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the 
Judge piercingly. He promptly hedged. 

‘ ‘ Oh, well, I don’t mean actual danger, of course—life 
and limb. ... I mean,—why, I mean his career, that’s 
all. But he doesn’t give a—doesn’t think of that. I 
must run.” 

The Judge fled ignominiously. 

Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when 
her emotion was stirred. In a flash she had pieced 
together the Judge’s words—his hurry and Laurence’s— 
the revolver—Laurence’s reference to the mob and his 
saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw 
it now—certainly he was in danger, actual danger. She 





110 


PROUD LADY 


wondered she had been so stupid, not to see it before, 
not to feel it when he said good-bye. 

The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary re¬ 
membered that it was time for young James’ nap. She 
went quickly out on the porch, picked him up and car¬ 
ried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, 
she put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down 
to look at the baby, who was sleeping. She did not like 
leaving the children, she always got her mother to stay 
with them if she went out, but now she would not stop 
for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing 
neighbour, and hurried down the street toward the 
square. 

Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the 
vividness of a bad dream that has startled one from 
sleep. The crowd in the square, in which she was caught 
at once, it seemed without the possibility of getting for¬ 
ward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through 
this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those 
near her seemed as helpless as herself. A group of men 
about her tried to protect her, but they too were swept 
on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost carry 
them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her 
shawl wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure 
that nearly crushed her she cried out sharply. Her 
defenders, fighting back savagely, made a united effort 
and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, 
lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and 
there they formed a line before her. 

She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and 
looked over their shoulders at the swaying crowd. All 




PROUD LADY 


111 


those faces—a vague blur, like the noise that came from 
that mass of men—something bewildered, indefinite, a 
formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without 
leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but 
without shape. 

Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ring¬ 
ing out, deep and powerful. Across the square, on the 
courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson was speaking. 
Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of 
the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His 
voice reached her, not the words but the tones, sharp and 
hard, not pleading, rather menacing, commanding, flash¬ 
ing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he lifted his arm, 
with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture. . . . 

He stopped, turned and went into the building. 
There came a sudden shout from the crowd and a strug¬ 
gle began, an eddy like a whirlpool, about something 
advancing—a black closed vehicle, with horsemen sur¬ 
rounding it, visible over the heads of the people. It 
passed slowly along the side of the square. Cries, hisses 
greeted it, and a shower of stones. It passed so close 
that she could clearly see the faces of two men who stood 
on the step of the prison van, shielding its door with 
their bodies. Both had the same look of hard pale reso¬ 
lution. The narrow step gave them a bare foot-hold, 
they stood close together, holding to the door. One was 
Carlin, with his revolver in his hand, the other was 
Hilary Robertson, hatless, his forehead cut by a stone. 




Ill 


C ARLIN came back late that night, weary but 
triumphant, having seen his man safely lodged in 
the county jail. He was full of scorn for the fu¬ 
tile malice of his fellow-citizens, and declared to Mary 
and the Judge, as he ate his supper, that he would get 
Barclay off, just to spite them. He was excited, his blue 
eyes gleamed with the elation of combat and success. 
He had identified himself completely now with the cause 
of his client. The odds against him roused all his ener¬ 
gies, his fighting instinct as well as his instinct for pro¬ 
tection. Carlin needed at the same time to hate and to 
love. 

But he liked things in clear black and white, he 
wanted always a definite adversary whom he could hate 
with reason. He was profoundly impatient of certain 
feelings in himself which he could not explain nor jus¬ 
tify. Some incidents of the day had irritated him 
deeply, stirring these feelings. Presently he broke out, 
addressing the Judge. 

‘‘I suppose you know that the preacher mixed him¬ 
self up in it.” 

“ Yes, yes, he certainly did. I will say for that fellow 
that he’s always on hand when there’s a scrap,” replied 
the Judge easily. “Spoiled a good fighting man, I guess, 
when he took to preaching.” 

“Well, he ought to stick to preaching, and not come 
poking his nose into what doesn’t concern him!” 

112 


113 


PROUD LADY 

“Oh, I don’t know, Laurence, I guess he did a good 
turn today. The way he lit into that crowd—he gave 
them hell. And he has influence round here, people 
respect him, they know he’s no milk-sop. Of course 
maybe the talk didn’t do so much, I don’t know—but 
his coming along with you—” 

Carlin cut the Judge short impatiently. 

“We didn’t want him to go! But there he stuck— 
he would be in it. . . . And then he’d got in too and 
talked to Barclay. Got the poor fellow all mushed up, 
talking about his sin—as if he didn’t feel enough like 
a sinner already!” 

“Well, well, that’s his business, you know,” argued 
the Judge. “You can’t blame him for that. And he 
showed he was willing to stand by Barclay. I guess 
he did about as much to protect him as the deputies 
did—” 

“Oh, bosh!” 

“Well, I think so. That crowd knew they’d have to 
hurt him to get at Barclay, and they didn’t want to.” 

“I saw they cut his head open with a stone,” ob¬ 
served Mary calmly. She was sitting beside the table, 
sewing. 

“You saw?” 

“I was down there in the square.” 

The two men stared at her incredulously. She went 
on, taking tiny neat stitches carefully in the baby’s gar¬ 
ment : 

“I went down after you left. I was worried.” 

‘ ‘ Down there—in that crowd ? Good Lord! ’ ’ 

The Judge looked horrified and guilty. 

“Yes. My dress got torn and I lost my shawl. But 




114 


PROUD LADY 


some men helped me up into a doorway. 1 saw you 
go by.” 

She looked up reflectively at Carlin. 

“You were crazy to do that!” he cried. “Why on 
earth—” 

“Well, I was worried. I knew you wouldn’t be tak¬ 
ing that pistol for nothing.” 

Carlin gazed at her with softened eyes, with compunc¬ 
tion, disturbed and pleased too. 

“Why, you poor girl! I didn’t think you’d worry. 
You always take everything so quietly. Why, Mary! 
You in that mob—!” 

“I’m glad I went. The crowd was dreadful, but— 
I’m glad I saw you.” 

Her eyes lit up suddenly, glowed. 

“You looked splendid!” 

“Splendid?” 

He laughed, stretched out his hand to hers, deeply 
pleased. 

“I can’t express it, but with all that howling crowd, 
and the stones, yes, you were splendid! Both of 
you. ’ ’ 

Carlin withdrew his hand abruptly, and Mary se¬ 
renely went on with her sewing. 

• •••••• 

She was well aware that Carlin disliked Hilary Rob¬ 
ertson, but as she considered that his dislike was without 
reason, she ignored it as much as possible. Carlin’s 
flings at “the preacher,” she was accustomed to receive 
in silence. She considered that Hilary needed no de¬ 
fence, his life spoke for him, he was blameless. She 
put Carlin’s sneers down to his unregenerate nature, 





PROUD LADY 


115 


his habit of scoffing at religion, which now seemed in¬ 
grained. Never would she have admitted the possibil¬ 
ity that Carlin might be jealous. That would have been 
too degrading, it would have reflected upon her, and she 
was serenely conscious that her conduct and feelings 
were blameless also. She had tried to explain to him 
the nature of her admiration for Hilary, but he couldn’t 
or wouldn’t understand it. He had a wrong attitude 
toward it, and toward her church activities and chari¬ 
table work. Most men, she thought, liked to have their 
wives religious, but Laurence would have preferred fri¬ 
volity on her part. He was very fond of pleasure; he 
insisted on keeping wine in the house, and on taking her 
to Chicago for the evening on the rare occasions when 
she could get away. Mary felt that she yielded a good 
deal, perhaps more than she ought, to Laurence’s light 
tendencies; but then, also, it was a wife’s duty to yield, 
whenever she could consistently with higher duties. So 
she had a submissive attitude—except when some ques¬ 
tion of “right” came up. 

In reality she ruled the house, and the Judge and 
Carlin, and the babies and the Swedish servant, with 
an iron hand. An exact order prevailed in the house¬ 
hold, a definite routine for each day. Mary had her 
ideas about how a family should be managed, and 
she worked hard to carry them out, and made other peo¬ 
ple work too. She had a manner now of quiet authority. 
She did not scold, nor raise her voice when displeased; 
but visited the transgressor with an awful silence and 
with icy glances. Outside the house she seldom inter¬ 
fered with the doings of her husband or Judge Baxter. 
“Business” was the man’s province, and she did not 





116 


PROUD LADY 


enquire, as a rule, into its details. And in her own 
province she did not expect to be interfered with. 

The Judge and Carlin submitted meekly to her rules 
—refrained from smoking in certain rooms, were prompt 
at meals, careful about the sort of men they brought to 
the house, did not indulge in unseemly levity of conversa¬ 
tion. The Judge had almost conquered a lifelong habit 
of profanity. He had a complete fealty to Mary, was 
touchingly pleased to be ruled by her. He was afraid 
of her, and often felt like a small boy in her presence. 
He despised her intellect, as he did that of all women. 
This contempt existed side by side in his mind with ad¬ 
miration and involuntary awe, and the conjunction never 
troubled him. He would have said that he admired 
women but didn’t respect them. More difficult to over¬ 
come than swearing was his habit of cynical speech 
about the sex. It broke out now and then in Mary’s 
presence, revealing his deep conviction that women 
(though angelic no doubt) were hardly human, but of 
a distinctly inferior species. Mary never troubled to 
defend her sex. She would merely look at the Judge 
with a calm, slightly ironical gaze, under which he 
sometimes blushed. 

• •••••• 

The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was 
ill, Mrs. Lowell reported. There was no hesitation now 
about her entrance. She walked into the house, majes¬ 
tic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow received 
her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been 
established between them on the subject of the minister. 

‘ ‘He’s up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him 
to stay in bed,” the widow complained in a subdued 




PROUD LADY 


117 


voice. “And he won’t take his chicken broth, that I 
made specially—” 

“Well, bring it in and I’ll see that he takes it,” said 
Mary. 

She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, 
“Oh, come in!” 

Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled 
afghan over him. His head was swathed in bandages, 
his cheeks flushed with fever. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he murmured apologetically. “I 
thought it was that old woman again. ’ ’ 

Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the 
afghan more smoothly over him and to shake up his 
pillows. Then she took his wrist, her finger on the 
pulse. 

“Why don’t you stay in bed?” she enquired. “You 
have fever.” 

“Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that’s 
all.’’ 

“I should think so. Was the cut on your head very 
bad?” 

“The doctor sewed it up. It’s all right.” 

He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. 
Mary sat down beside the sofa and picked up a book that 
lay open on the floor. 

“Greek—a nice time for you to be reading Greek!” 
she remarked. 

Hilary smiled. 

“How are you getting on with it?” he asked. 

“Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet,” she 
smiled too. “I practise when I have time. And I’m 
going to teach it to James when he’s old enough.” 




118 


PROUD LADY 


“They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when 
he was three.” 

“Then I don’t see why James shouldn’t.” 

At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, 
with a sad look, bearing a steaming cup, which Mary 
took from her and presented to Hilary. 

“Drink your broth—and after this you must drink 
it whenever Mrs. Lewis brings it.” 

Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows 
and began to sip the broth, making a wry face. 

“Awful stuff,” he protested. 

“Indeed, it’s the best chicken broth, if I did make it 
myself! ’ ’ muttered the widow, retiring with an offended 
air. 

“I’m afraid you’re a trying invalid,” said Mary, 
amused. 

“Hate to be treated like an invalid, that’s all. . . . 
But women always have to be coddling something,” 
Hilary said ungraciously. 

He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of 
relief. Mary rose and began setting the room in order, 
restoring scattered books to their shelves, picking up 
articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the floor. 
Hilary’s eyes followed her; he made no protest, even 
when she arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles. 

“You know,” said Mary suddenly, “Laurence and 
the, Judge are going to defend that man—Barclay.” 
' “Yes, I know it.” 

“Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a 
man he knows to be guilty?” 

“There’s something to be said even for the guilty,” 
said Hilary after a moment. 




PROUD LADY 


119 


*— 

“You mean he can be defended?” 

Again he hesitated. 

“As I understand it, they can’t try to deny that he 
committed the murder, they can only plead extenuating 
circumstances. ’’ 

“That means, try to justify it! ... Do you believe in 
that ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t know all the circumstances. . . . But the 
law distinguishes—if it is done in the heat of passion, 
it may be called manslaughter—not murder.” 

“And what would he get for that?” 

“A term of years, imprisonment.” 

“Well, I should think murder was murder, however 
it was done! . . . And as to circumstances, you know 
Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of your 
church, you know what a hard time she had, especially 
after he came home, and now her children are left worse 
than orphans—I don’t see how you can say that ‘ circum¬ 
stances ’ make any difference ! ’ 9 

She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him. 

‘ 4 Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged ? ’ 9 

“Well, if anybody is hanged, he ought to be! So 
long as we have laws to punish criminals—” 

“You stand up for the woman always, Mary,” said 
Hilary, smiling faintly. 

“And you—you and Laurence—it seems to me very 
queer that you two should be standing up for that man! 
Yesterday—risking your life for him—now I think it’s 
very strange.” 

“That wasn’t so much for him,” said Hilary slowly. 
“It was to prevent another murder, that’s all—to 
keep them from doing what he’d done.” 





120 


PROUD LADY 


He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened. 

1 ‘I oughtn’t to talk to you about it now. You must 
be quiet. I’ll go now, and you must promise me to go 
to bed and not get up till the fever’s gone. Will you?” 

“Yes. But stay a little longer.” 

She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his 
eyes closed. 

“Did you go to see the children today?” he asked after 
a pause. 

“Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard— 
they ’re so little, you know, they don’t realize anything— 
except perhaps the girl. I wanted to take one of them, 
but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were better off 
together. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I should think so. . . . We’ll have to find 
homes for them, though, and it isn’t likely they can be 
together long.” 

“I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of 
them—and I could take one. I’m sure Laurence would 
think that right, as he is so much interested in— 
the father. ’ ’ 

$ 

Mary’s face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. 
Hilary half-opened his eyes and looked at her. 

“You hate sinners, don’t you, Mary? You don’t 
understand why people sin?” 

“From weakness,” she said. 

“And you haven’t much pity for weakness. ... You 
don’t understand how a man can make a beast of him¬ 
self with drink, because he’s unhappy.” 

“Do you?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, I understand it,” said Hilary with a 
tortured look, “I know what unhappiness and lone- 




PROUD LADY 


121 


liness can do. . . . Sometimes I wish I didn’t. How 
can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so 
well ? ’ ’ 

“You must, though,” said Mary calmly. 

She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew 
his weakness. The relation between these two had 
changed. No longer did she with humility look up to 
Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him 
as in her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary 
had often accused himself to her as a weak and erring 
man, he had passionately resisted her attempts to 
canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more 
frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for 
perfection, and his despair of it; she knew too, though 
not by direct expression, his human longings and his 
loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did not 
need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He 
was only a man now, but still better than other men, 
stronger, with higher aims. She admired him. But 
they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward 
him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she 
felt that all men, all that she knew, however gifted and 
interesting, were somewhat childish. 

She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of 
her children she had come into her heritage of life. 
She was now so firmly planted on the earth, so deeply 
rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her. The. 
dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her 
now like the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, 
assured. 

Hilary’s life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud¬ 
like, because it was so restless, so tormented. The need 




122 


PROUD LADY 


for incessant action and struggle that drove him, as it 
drove Laurence in a different direction, seemed to her 
sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, 
the calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing 
one’s duty and refraining from wrong. Simple—and 
easy. 

She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but in¬ 
sisted that he should not talk. She knew that he liked 
to have her sitting beside him, immobile, her hands 
folded on her knee, not even looking at him. She knew 
now very well what her presence meant to him; their 
constant meeting in the work of the church; their talks, 
intimate in a sense, though she made no personal con¬ 
fessions to him and he never expressed his feeling for 
her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this relation, 
and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds 
of right and reason, even if tempted to do so. She 
herself had not the least temptation. All her pride 
lay in keeping things exactly as they were. 




IV 


T HAT night she proposed to Laurence that they 
should adopt one of Barclay’s children. Lau¬ 
rence did not like the idea at all; he looked 
discomfited, and so did the Judge. Both felt it 
would be the intrusion of a stranger into the 
domestic circle. Laurence had a good reason to 
give for his objection, and a sincere one—it would be 
too much for Mary, she had her hands full now, with 
the house and two small children. Mary said she could 
manage it, and that it was only right for her to do her 
part in helping the unfortunates. She looked so calmly 
resolved as she spoke that Laurence and the Judge 
exchanged alarmed glances. They did not oppose her 
directly, but devised a stratagem. Laurence pointed 
out to Mary next morning that after all they were living 
in the Judge’s house, and the Judge didn’t want a 
strange child there. So they couldn’t very well adopt 
the child, but he, Laurence, would be responsible for its 
maintenance and care somewhere else. 

“Very well,” said Mary austerely. “But I think the 
Judge is very self-indulgent.” 

“So am I, then,” confessed Laurence. “I don't want 
it either. But honestly, both of us think about you. I 
don’t want you to undertake it, dearest—it’s too much.” 

“If other people, not so well off as we are, can do it, 
I should think we could.” 

“It’s a question of what we can do best. I’ll gladly 

123 



m 


PROUD LADY 


give the money, and I’m doing all I can for Barclay too, 
and so is the Judge.” 

“I know—for him. You’re interested in him, but I 
think you’d do much better to help the children.” 

“Well, I will help them, you’ll see.” 

Laurence kept his word, and in fact charged him¬ 
self with the future, as it turned out, of all three chil¬ 
dren. But Mary was for the moment dissatisfied. She 
wished to put into instant practice her theories of duty, 
and utterly scorned theory without practice. 

Looking in that afternoon, as she had said she would, 
to see if Hilary had kept his promise and to report 
about the children, she mentioned the attitude of her 
husband and the Judge as explaining why she could not 
carry out her plan. 

“I think men are very inconsistent,” she said caus¬ 
tically. “They like to talk about what they’ll do for 
other people, but when it really comes to doing it—” 

“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp,” quoted 
Hilary. “We always see much more than we can do.” 

“I think it would be better, then, to see less and do 
more,” remarked Mary. 

Hilary looked very weak and pale. His fever was 
down, but he had kept his bed, unwillingly. Mary had 
brought him a pot of jelly and a few daffodils from her 
garden. He held the flowers in his hand, and looked 
with brooding tender pleasure at their brilliant colour. 
Mary asked questions about some church-business she was 
to do for him, and then, in the short remaining time 
of her visit, they talked about sin. 

The conversation of the day before had remained in 
her mind and puzzled her. She questioned him sharply: 




PROUD LADY 


125 


“What did you mean by saying that when you under¬ 
stood the sinner you couldn’t condemn sin? Do you 
really feel that?” 

“I often feel it,” said Hilary in a low voice. 

“Then it would be better for you not to understand 
the sinner. You said so yourself, you said you wished 
you didn’t.” 

“Well, I can’t help it,” Hilary smiled wanly. 
“Because, you see, I’m a sinner myself.” 

“Of course you’re not. You only like to think you 
are. ’ ’ 

“What is sin? You said it’s weakness. Do you think 
I’m not weak, sometimes ? ’ ’ 

“No, I don’t think you are. You don’t act weakly, 
and that’s the only thing that counts.” 

“Is it? Don’t you think there are sinful thoughts 
and feelings?” 

“Of course. But if we fight against them—” 

“Well, don’t you think that a man who carries a sin¬ 
ful feeling around with him, even if he doesn’t act 
on it, knows what a sinner is—and do you think he can 
be very hard on another man who just happens to 
act?” 

Mary cast an angry glance at the pale face turned 
toward her. There was a look about Hilary’s mouth, 
as though he were repressing a smile. He had a look 
of mischief, not merry either, but as though deliberately 
trying to puzzle and disturb her—and she had seen this 
in him before. 

She arose from her chair, and gathered her shawl 
about her, lifting her chin, stately in her displeasure. 
Her grey eyes looked down with cold reproof. 




126 


PROUD LADY 


“I think instead of talking that way, you’d much 
better go to sleep.” 

“Well, good-bye, then,” said Hilary. 

He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed 
tightly on the yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw 
lying there before her, not a man, hut a forlorn sick 
child. For the first time she knew the impulse to com¬ 
fort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It 
frightened her, and she went out quickly, without a 
word. 

Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. 
The Judge had been taken ill and Laurence had brought 
him home. Mrs. Lowell was there in the room, a mes¬ 
senger had been sent to try to find the doctor. The 
Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his 
face deeply flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell’s aid, 
was trying to get some of his clothes off. 

“He’s had a stroke—just toppled over at his desk— 
I wish you’d been at home, Mary,” said Laurence with 
sharp reproach. “I don’t know what on earth to do 
for him—” 

Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got 
his coat and boots off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a 
cold compress on his head. He was breathing heavily 
and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left side 
of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the 
children and that it was the baby’s nursing-time, and 
as there seemed nothing more to do, she left the room. 
Laurence followed her out. 

“You remember he’s complained of dizziness several 
times lately—I tried to have him see your father but he 




PROUD LADY 


127 


wouldn’t, said he thought perhaps he’d been eating or 
smoking too much. At his age, you know, it’s pretty 
serious— ’ ’ 

“He didn’t look well this morning,” began Mary, go¬ 
ing into the dining-room, where the cook was looking 
after the children. 

“Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, 
then—where were you?” asked Laurence irritably. 

“Please put James in his pen,” said Mary, taking the 
baby. “Hilda, you’d better see that there’s plenty of 
hot water—the doctor may want it.” 

She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low 
chair in their room to nurse it. When Laurence came 
in the door, she said directly: 

“I went to see Mr. Robertson—he’s ill.” 

“You went yesterday too, didn’t you? . . . You’re 
very attentive to him.” 

She looked up at him, opposing to harsh irritation her 
reproving silence. 

“I tell you, I don’t care to have you going to see 
him that way, alone. Do you want to be talked 
about ?’’ 

“Don’t disturb me when I’m nursing the baby. . . . 
There—isn’t that Father?” 

The clatter of wheels and a hasty run up the steps in 
fact announced the doctor’s arrival. Laurence went 
downstairs, with an angry parting glance. The baby 
cried a little, and Mary gathered it to her breast, compos¬ 
ing herself, shutting her eyes, trying to banish all dis¬ 
turbing thoughts, even the thought of the Judge. She 
believed that any disturbance in her when she was 
nursing reacted at once on the baby. Indeed now the 




128 


PROUD LADY 


* 


baby cried shrilly and at first refused the breast; but 
after a few moments, quiet succeeded, and Mary sighed, 
relaxing. It was a deep physical pleasure to her, to 
nurse her child—more so with this one than with the 
first. The baby’s strong pull at the breast, for he was 
a robust infant—his hand opening and shutting on her 
flesh, the warmth of his little body, the relation of com¬ 
plete confidence and satisfaction—it moved and soothed 
her. She sank into a dreamy contentment, isolated 
from all that hurry and trouble downstairs. 

But when the baby, replete, had gone to sleep, she laid 
him on the bed, and at once went down. She was very 
much concerned about the Judge, though her quiet 
face and motions did not betray her anxiety. She did 
what could be done, and awaited her father’s verdict 
silently. 

“Apoplexy—he’ll recover, undoubtedly, but his left 
side is affected, there may be a slight paralysis,” Dr. 
Lowell told them. “His habits have been bad—no ex¬ 
ercise, too much whiskey and tobacco. And then his age 
—he must be over seventy. Probably he’ll be a good 
deal of an invalid from now on. ’ ’ 

“He won’t like that,” Laurence said sorrowfully. 

“No, he’s never taken care of himself, he’ll hate it, 
naturally—but so it is. . . . It will mean a good deal for 
you and Mary—the care of him here, and then he won’t 
be able to do any work for some time—perhaps never 
again, to any extent.” 

Laurence and Mary looked at one another gravely and 
sadly—both felt what this would mean to the Judge. 
When they were alone, Laurence went and took her into 
his arms. 




PROUD LADY 


129 


“I’m sorry I was cross to you,” he said softly. “I 
didn’t mean to be rough.” 

Mary kissed his cheek. 

“I know—of course you were terribly worried,” was 
her forgiving response. 

“This will be very hard for you, Mary, the Judge be¬ 
ing ill—we must get some one to help.” 

“Well—we’ll see. . . .You’ll have a lot of extra work 
too, Laurence, and you’re working so hard now—” 

* ‘ Oh, I think I can manage, ’ ’ he said absently. ‘ * But 
the thing right now is to get somebody here to help you 
—he ’ll have to be watched at night now, and—I tell you, 
there’s Nora. You remember the girl you saw at the 
office the other day, Nora Skehan, you know I told you 
I used to know her as a child. She’s out of work again, 
and I’m sure she’d be glad to come. You might try 
her. ’ ’ 

“Well, I’ll see,” said Mary again. 

Laurence held her and looked at her appealingly. 

‘ ‘ Mary—I can’t bear to have anything wrong with you 
and me. . . . Other things go wrong—there’s a lot of 
trouble and worry—but I can’t stand it to feel angry at 
you, or have you angry with me—” 

“I don’t think I’m ever angry with you,” murmured 
Mary reflectively. 

“Well, worse . . . you look at me sometimes as if you 
didn’t like me ! When you ’re displeased—it’s worse 
than being angry. I’d rather you’d flame out, the way 
I do, and get it over with—” 

“I’m not like you.’’ She smiled gravely. 

“I wish you felt as I do—that you’d do anything 
rather than have trouble between us—” 





130 


PROUD LADY 


“Trouble? What trouble?’’ 

She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that 
hurt him. 

“I mean, you don’t seem to care that certain things 
disturb me!” he burst out. “You’re so terribly re¬ 
served, you keep things to yourself—you do things I 
don’t like, and you don’t care that I don’t like them—” 

“ I don’t do anything wrong, ’ ’ said Mary proudly. 

“You’re so sure everything you do is right! No 
matter how it affects me/” 

“You do things I don’t like—Barclay, for instance.” 

“That was a matter—I felt I had to do it—I felt it 
was right—” 

“Well, you must allow me to judge what is right for 
me. I shall never do what I think wrong.” 

“What you think! You don’t think it wrong then 
to disturb me by your actions, not to give me your con¬ 
fidence— ’ ’ 

“Confidence?” said Mary haughtily. “I will tell 
you anything you want to know. I haven’t anything to 
conceal. But you simply don’t understand my feelings, 
certain things I care about that you don’t care 
about—” 

“That’s it! You take it for granted I can’t under¬ 
stand. ... I don’t want you to have friendships apart 
from me!” 

Mary stood still, looking down, her eyes hidden by 
the long drooping lids that gave her face a look of pas¬ 
sionless calm, inflexible, immovable. 

“Do you hear?” cried Laurence. 

He knew, even while he could not master his agitation, 
that it put him in the wrong, that it gave her the ad- 




131 


PROUD LADY 


vantage. But he could not bear opposition from her. 
To know that they were not completely united, com¬ 
pletely one in feeling, was a torment to him. 

“Don’t shout,” she said. “I think this is a queei 
time for you to talk like this, Laurence—it seems to 
me you ought to be thinking about the Judge.” 

“Ought!” he muttered. “Did you hear what I 
said?” 

“Yes, I heard, Laurence. But—” She looked full 
at him now, her clear grey eyes very bright. “But T 
will not let you interfere with what I think right to do.” 

“You will not? . . . Don’t you know that I’m master 
here, that you’re bound to do as I say?” 

Again the long lids veiled her eyes, and she stood 
without replying. And Laurence’s heart was burning. 
This harsh assertion of authority had been wrong, it 
was not what he meant. He hated force. What good 
would anything forced from Mary do to him? What 
he longed for was a tender understanding—but if she 
would not understand, would not be tender, what could 
he do but rage? 

At this point they were interrupted. Mrs. Lowell 
called to them from the sickroom, and Mary hurried to 
take charge there, without a word or look for her hus¬ 
band. Resentment smouldered in her mind, a feeling 
that Laurence was wrong, and, in addition, undignified. 
All the rest of the afternoon, busy as she was, and 
grieved too as she watched the Judge’s stricken figure— 
all this time a turmoil of feeling about Laurence was 
going on below the surface of her mind. Never had 
she been so disturbed. This was the first really serious 
clash in the two years of their life together. 




V 


F OR the first time, her will and Laurence’s were 
definitely, sharply opposed. Heretofore, each of 
them had yielded, in much that concerned the 
other, without a clear issue. She felt that she 
had yielded a good deal to Laurence. He had 
associates that she did not like, hard-drinking bache¬ 
lors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional 
convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though 
never overcome. She did not like even his moderate 
drinking, nor the fact that he never went to church, 
that he took no interest in religion except to jest 
crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, 
so far, tried to interfere openly with her interest in the 
church nor her association with Hilary in work, nor 
her taking up a course of reading in history and begin¬ 
ning to study Greek under Hilary’s direction. He had 
acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, 
as was her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, 
though she knew he disliked “the preacher.” He gave 
no good reason for his feeling, but he expressed it in 
gibes and bitter jokes about “sky-pilots,” the fondness 
of women for priests, the power of “holiness,” and so 
on. These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she 
had passed them over in silence, withdrawing into her¬ 
self and indicating to Laurence that she did not expect 
him to understand nor take any part in this interest of 
hers, any more than she could take part in his stag- 
suppers. 


132 


PROUD LADY 


133 


But this division of interest, this separation, to some 
extent, of activity, did not affect her feeling about 
Laurence nor disappoint any desire in her. She was 
satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement of her 
life. The achievement of maternity had given her the 
solid basis, the central motive, to which everything else 
was incidental. Laurence was most importantly con¬ 
nected with this motive, but yet in a way he was out¬ 
side it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against 
it. What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between 
Mary and himself, which should be the centre of all 
things, subordinating everything else. And this, in his 
feeling, had not come to pass, because she could not 
understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatis¬ 
fied; therefore demanding, often harsh and bitter, often 
unreasonable. 

Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a 
father; and this appeared to Mary the height of unrea¬ 
son on his part. To be the head of a family—what more 
dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, so 
far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, 
he succeeded in his profession, what more could he ask? 
Why, when everything promised well, should he so often 
be moody, irritable and discontented? It must be the 
nature of man, perpetually unquiet. 

On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or per¬ 
haps not clearly conscious. Her plan assigned to Lau¬ 
rence the role of head of the family; in reality what 
she expected him to be was a figurehead. This was 
quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theo¬ 
retically, of course, the man was master of his house¬ 
hold, and the wife as well as the children owed him 




134 


PROUD LADY 


obedience. Mary would never have dreamed of disput¬ 
ing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her 
acquaintance. But practice—that was quite another 
thing. In practice, the women ruled their households 
and themselves, and very often their husbands also, 
allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine 
matters, such as business, and a certain amount of 
license in regard to their amusements. The woman’s 
path was sharply marked out; she could not overstep 
certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had 
her authority and independence. 

In her own family, Mary could remember very few 
occasions on which her mother’s actions or decisions had 
been questioned by the nominal chief. If she were sub¬ 
ject to her husband, it did not appear; the household 
produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was 
Mary’s idea of the proper constitution of a family. It 
was unthinkable that the man should interfere in details, 
should try to dictate in matters outside his province; 
by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he 
should maintain. 

A wife must always speak to her husband with re¬ 
spect; must never criticize him nor complain of him, 
even to her nearest friend or relative; his dignity was 
hers. Also, a certain formality in her address to him 
was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as 
Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him 
Mr. Brown, rather than John. Mary was conscious that 
her relation with Laurence, so far, lacked formality. 
But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was very 
young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he 
acted like a boy, much of the time. 





PROUD LADY 


135 


That afternoon and evening, there were times when 
there w T as nothing to be done in the sickroom but to sit 
and watch; and Mary was thinking. She regretted 
bitterly the clash with Laurence—those sharp words, 
her own assertion of independence. There she had made 
a mistake, had transgressed her own code. Laurence’s 
counter-assertion of authority was also a mistake, but a 
natural consequence of hers. She should not have set 
herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he 
were w T rong. She now found herself obliged either to 
give battle or to retreat—both alternatives very dis¬ 
tasteful to her. She was angry at herself ; she had fallen 
below her own standard, lost her self-control, behaved 
in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her 
own position. 

She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually 
did command, she would have to obey. She could not 
openly flout her husband’s authority, that was impos¬ 
sible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible 
mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. 
She knew very well that that was not the way to man¬ 
age. 

Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, 
looking straight before her, she thought it out. She did 
not like the idea of “ managing, ” or gaining any point 
by methods other than the most simple and direct. Any¬ 
thing underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply repug¬ 
nant to her. She did not like even to “humour” 
people. How, then, was one to deal with an unreason¬ 
able man—must one actually submit to him when he 
was in the wrong? 

Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this case 




136 


PROUD LADY 


»■ ■■ - --- - " ■ ' 1 11 

because be could not possibly think that there was any 
harm in her friendship with Hilary. He could not pos¬ 
sibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in 
that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks 
fired and her eyes flashed proudly. She felt herself 
not only impeccable in thought and deed, but above 
suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in act¬ 
ing as though he suspected her, or even disapproved 
of her, he was wronging her deeply. . . . 

But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, 
was to retrieve her own false step. She had done 
wrong—she would set that right, as far as possible. 
Then at least she would be right, whatever he might be. 
And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in 
her own feeling. What she saw as the right thing she 
would do, whatever it cost her. 

Having made her decision, she became quieter in 
mind, and began to think about the Judge. This day 
was evidently a day of disaster. The Judge would never 
be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had 
grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured 
in her by constant disapproval of his character. She 
disdained fleshly indulgences, such as eating and drink¬ 
ing too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge’s 
face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech 
was a little thick of an evening, when he found difficulty 
in lifting his heavy bulk. But now that the punishment 
of these carnal indulgences had fallen upon him, she 
felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what was 
before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey 
eyes. 




PROUD LADY 


137 


When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, 
before he took up his night-watch beside the Judge, she 
said to him gently: 

“I’m very sorry I spoke to you as I did this after¬ 
noon. I was wrong. I shall never oppose your will, 
in anything that concerns myself, if I can help it.” 

Laurence’s troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash 
of joy. He clasped her in his arms, melting instantly 
when she showed a sign of yielding, too happy to pause 
upon the manner of her yielding. His generous spirit, 
impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther 
in concession. He swept their difference away passion¬ 
ately. 

“Dearest, I was wrong too—more than you! . . . 
You know, Mary, I don’t want to interfere with any 
pleasure of yours—you know I want you to have every¬ 
thing you want! . . . And I don’t think you want any¬ 
thing wrong, you know I don’t think it, not for a min¬ 
ute ! . . . Only I want you to love me more than any¬ 
thing, not to need anything but me, that’s all I really 
want! And you do, don’t you? Because I love you 
more than the whole world—” 

“Of course I do,” she said softly. “You know per¬ 
fectly well, I do.” 

“No, sometimes I don’t, and then I get wild! Then 
I can’t bear to have you like any one else at all. Only 
make me feel that you love me, Mary, and it will be 
all right. I shan’t care what you do, if I’m sure of 
you! ’ ’ 

“As if you weren’t sure of me!” said Mary, with a 
touch of austerity. 




138 


PROUD LADY 


“Oli, I don’t mean what yon do, I mean your feeling, 
don’t you see?” 

“No, I don’t. How queer you are, Laurence!” 

“No, it’s you that’s queer! . . . But I love you.” 

So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the 
reality which had cast this shadow remained, the real 
difference. Both of them were careful now not to bring 
it up, both repressed themselves somewhat. Mary con¬ 
tinued to see Hilarv in connection with the church, but 
she did not ask him to the house. Laurence did not 
speak of him, nor of Mary’s studies, and she kept 
her books out of his sight. But he knew that she was 
going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feel¬ 
ing; and she knew that he was still unreasonable about 
it. 

For some time, however, this remained an under¬ 
current in their life, which was full of activities, in¬ 
terests, anxieties, in which they generally accorded. 
It was on the whole a happy time for them, an uncon¬ 
scious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life 
opened out before them full of hope and promise, 
vaguely bright. 




VI 


T HE next year brought significant changes. Lau¬ 
rence made a brilliant personal success in his 
defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to 
the point where nearly half stood out for twenty- 
four hours in favour of a verdict of manslaughter. 
Finally however Barclay was convicted of murder 
in the second degree and was sentenced to a long 
term of imprisonment. Laurence was showered with 
praise and congratulations for his conduct of the case, 
his address to the jury had moved a crowded court¬ 
room to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was 
made. 

The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, 
though he never recovered from his illness. The burden 
of the partnership now fell upon Laurence, the Judge 
could only consult and advise in important cases, and 
as time w’ent on not even that, for his memory was 
impaired. He suffered and fretted under his restric¬ 
tions, was a fractious invalid, and the loss of mental 
power was so sore a grief to him that he resorted for 
solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the 
desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner. 

Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great 
assistance with the Judge. Her quick good-humour 
amused the old man, her energy was unfailing, she was 
deft and tactful. She became his special attendant, 
and also helped with the children, for another baby was 

139 


140 


PROUD LADY 


coming. Nora liked the Judge, but she loved the chil¬ 
dren, she became devoted to them. Soon she was in¬ 
dispensable in the household. Mary was a little ailing. 
Three children in less than four years had taxed her 
strength. But she was well content; she wanted an¬ 
other son, in fact she would have liked six of them, 
big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them in her 
mind’s eye, a robust procession. 

During that year the Judge made his will. He de¬ 
sired to leave his property, which was much larger than 
any one had suspected, to Laurence. But Laurence 
protested. There were relatives, sisters and nephews, 
and he couldn’t take what ought to belong to them. 
The Judge, easily] excited, flew into a rage, and de¬ 
clared that he didn’t care a cuss for any of his relatives, 
and that he would leave his money to charity rather 
than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will, he 
would give away the lot of it during his life-time, 
make ducks and drakes of it, throw it away, by God! 
He would do as he pleased! 

Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the dis¬ 
cussion. 

“No,” said the Judge fretfully. “Carpe diem—I 
haven’t so many left. I want it settled.” 

“Judge, how can I take anything more from you? 
See what you’ve done for me already. It wouldn’t be 
right—” 

“Well, see what you’ve done for me, you and Mary. 
You’ve given me a home, the only one I ever had, you’ve 
been like my own children to me, and that’s the way I 
feel about you. And I want you should have some¬ 
thing to remember the old man by, when he’s gone.” 




PROUD LADY 


141 


In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as 
Laurence did about the money, a compromise was ef¬ 
fected. Generous legacies were left to the near rela¬ 
tives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, 
to Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be 
Laurence’s for his life. The Judge, having drawn up 
and executed what he considered an ironclad will with 
these provisions, was easier in his mind, and felt that he 
had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Lau¬ 
rence’s progress and give an occasional counsel. Lau¬ 
rence was fairly launched, business poured in upon him, 
he had two juniors in the office. The Judge rather 
regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever 
they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Lau¬ 
rence’s talent lay in this direction. And then the boy 
could afford it now, he needn’t be looking closely after 
money. He could afford to take cases that brought him 
little except reputation, and to have it said that every 
poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin’s 
office. If Laurence wanted to be the champion of the 
poor and oppressed, if he could be more eloquent in be¬ 
half of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small prop¬ 
erty than when he had a fat fee in prospect—why, let 
him go ahead. He was provided for, anyhow. 

In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on 
reading, of which he had always been fond. He had a 
respectable library of classics, bound in calf. He liked 
Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work per¬ 
mitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnifi¬ 
cent diction. Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, 
Burton and Macaulay were his favourites. He liked De 




142 


PROUD LADY 


Quincey too, and Burke’s speeches. He could listen by 
the hour to Milton’s prose, or the “Anatomy of Melan¬ 
choly. ’ ’ He often dwelt on the advantages of such read¬ 
ing, in forming a style. He did not consider that 
Laurence as yet had a style—he was too simple, too col¬ 
loquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods, bal¬ 
anced and built up, a wide range of allusion and meta¬ 
phor, a sombre and weighty splendour, was the Judge’s 
ideal of eloquence. 

Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting 
by and, sewing. But her thoughts often wandered— 
she had not much aesthetic feeling, and poetry bored 
her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence’s 
voice, as an accompaniment to thoughts which might 
have no concern with him. 

One evening a strange thing happened—Hilary Rob¬ 
ertson came to call on the Judge. Laurence happened 
to be away on business at the county seat—perhaps 
Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was, 
did not appear at that time. The Judge received him 
politely, though a little nervous, and begged Mary to 
stay when she was about to leave them together. There 
was a little general conversation, which presently fell 
upon literature and ended by Hilary’s reading at the 
Judge’s request the “Urn Burial” of Sir Thomas 
Browne. The effect of this stately prose in Hilary’s 
wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners. Mary 
dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old 
days came back upon her—some mysterious lifting of 
the heart, vague pain and yearning at the touch of 
unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this since her 
girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her. 




PROUD LADY 


143 


ITer eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling— 
no one but he, she was thinking, had ever had the power 
to move this feeling in her, to make her conscious of a 
world beyond this narrow world she lived in, to make 
her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy. . . . And he 
could do this just by the tone of his voice, reading 
something that she did not attend to. Music, what little 
she had heard, produced a similar effect upon her—it 
was the only form of art that touched her. . . . But 
now she resented Hilary’s power, she did not want to be 
stirred or made unhappy. Especially now, when she 
was carrying a child. Hearing the Judge issue a cor¬ 
dial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she decided 
that next time she would avoid him. 

In the next few months Laurence was away a good 
deal, and was obliged also to work late in the evenings 
when at home. The Judge came to depend upon Hilary 
for at least two weekly visits, when they would read 
and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in 
spite of her judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for 
it, sometimes not. 

Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. 
Finding how it had begun, he was struck with Hilary’s 
audacity. He had received the Judge’s praise of his 
new friend in silence; all the more incensed because he 
couldn’t openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the 
house. 

“I think the Judge is getting childish,” he said to 
Mary darkly. 

“He is much weaker,” she agreed. 

‘‘He must be—to let the preacher get hold of him. 
That would never have happened if he’d been himself.” 




144 


PROUD LADY 


She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking 
out across the lawn to where the sunset sparkled red 
through the trees. Laurence was sitting on the steps 
near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick black 
cigar. He glanced up. Mary’s look of weariness and 
sadness startled him. 

She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to 
realize that the Judge was dying, and needed what 
Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had begun to 
talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon 
meet; the Judge did not resent it, he was a little fright¬ 
ened, and only clung the closer to the firm hand stretched 
out to him. Yes, he needed Hilary—to no one else could 
he confess that he was afraid of death, that he had 
lived a careless life, that he didn’t want to believe in 
immortality but sometimes couldn’t help it. . . . But, 
Mary thought, it was no use to try to explain to Lau¬ 
rence. 

He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A 
quick impulse of alarm and affection made him repent¬ 
ant. He moved closer to her, put his hand on hers. 

“Mary, you’re not looking well—I’m afraid you’re 
doing too much. Are you very tired?” 

“Yes, a little,” she said vaguely, without responding 
to him, her eyes still fixed on the swaying trees and the 
red glow beyond. 

Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit 
his| cigar. At that moment he felt acutely that she 
was far away from him in spirit. He did not know her 
thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what 
she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had 




PROUD LADY 


145 


given np asking her. It seemed to him often that it was 
only the material part of her life that he had any con¬ 
nection with—that she willed it so. But she had an¬ 
other life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him—a 
life of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, 
his face dark and brooding. Laurence could look evil. 
His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, were menacing. His 
heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the cigar, 
spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not 
be repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would 
destroy if it could not build. Now he looked destruc¬ 
tive. 

He had changed much in these few years, grown 
heavier in body from his indoor life, grown handsomer. 
He still had his military erectness of carriage, something 
of the soldier remained in his alertness of movement and 
speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. 
Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his 
face—and there were lines of pain too, visible at times 
like this. 

The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had 
been taking his constitutional late, because of the heat, 
supported by his gold-headed cane and Nora’s arm. 
They were laughing as they approached. 

“She’s been telling me some of her Irish stories ,’ 1 
called out the old man tremulously. “Never was so 
amused in my life. She’s a smart girl, Nora is—and a 
pretty girl too! Isn’t she now?” 

Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He 
sank heavily into a chair, keeping hold of Nora’s hand, 
panting. 




146 


PROUD LADY 


“Isn’t she pretty now? ... I like her red hair. I 
wish I was a young fellow, I’d make up to her. . . . 
She’d keep me laughing. ...” 

Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and 
ran indoors. Laurence lounged for a moment against 
the door, and then went in too. He had to go to the 
office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing 
the open door of the children’s room, he saw Nora, with 
a candle, bending to arrange a tossed coverlet. He 
stood looking at her. The candle-flame lit up her shin¬ 
ing hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out 
softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put 
his arm around her, drew her close. 

“No!” she protested in a whisper. 

“Yes!” 

He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, 
wishing to resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook 
her at his touch. He bent his head, kissed her on the 
mouth. 




VII 



ARLIN could not have told himself how nor when 


his attitude toward Nora had changed, nor when 


he first became aware that the most ardent feel¬ 
ing of her warm heart was for him. It was all gradual 
and easy; it seemed to reach far back in the past, and 
to grow out of their childhood intimacy. Carlin could 
not remember the time when he had not felt affection 
for Nora. Affection was still his feeling—but hers was 
much stronger. And to know that she loved him, 
humbly, adoringly, passionately, as without any words 
on her part it was evident she did, could not but in¬ 
fluence him. 

Nora had always looked up to him, even when they 
were playmates; he was the bright romantic figure in 
her life. The years had set him apart from her; he 
had risen in the social scale and she had remained where 
she was. She was too humble to feel any bitterness at 
this. Nay, it was only right, for wasn’t it well known 
that Carlin came of gentlefolk in Ireland? It was 
natural that Laurence should be a gentleman, and that 
she, Nora, should be his handmaid. But it was also 
natural that she should love him. He was the hand¬ 
somest, cleverest man she had ever seen; and no one 
else had ever been so kind to her. 

Up to the time she entered his household, Nora had 
certainly never aspired to more than kindness and an 
occasional word of affection from Laurence; and there 


147 


148 


PROUD LADY 


for some time she was too happy to want more. She 
was treated not like a servant, but almost like a member 
of the family. She had her own pleasant room, she had 
no hard nor disagreeable work to do; she was always 
nicely dressed, clean and fresh. She spent her time 
with the children or the Judge; was in awe of Mary, 
who however always spoke to her kindly and pleasantly; 
addressed Laurence as “Mr. Carlin,’’ at which, chatting 
with her, he would laughingly protest. 

Nora did her work with real devotion. Far from 
feeling that her position was in any way an inferior 
or degrading one, she made her service so willing, so 
thorough and complete, she gave it with such pleasure, 
that it became an art. Mary soon learned that she need 
not watch Nora, that her instructions would be followed 
exactly, that nothing would be slurred nor forgotten, 
that Nora could be trusted to the last detail. As the 
time approached for the third child to be born, the 
other two came more and more under Nora’s care. 

Nora loved Laurence’s children. If her own life had 
been happily arranged, she would by this time have had 
some children of her own. She was twenty-eight years 
old, and had never had even a satisfactory love-affair. 
For this no doubt Laurence was indirectly to blame. His 
image, bright and radiant, made any swain who might 
sigh for Nora appear too dull for more than a passing 
interest. It was not in Nora’s nature to be ungrateful 
for any affection, whatever the source, and she had hon¬ 
estly tried to love her humble suitors, but in vain. She 
would have liked to marry, her only life in fact being 
that of affection, but instead she had drifted from one 
employment to another, untrained, badly paid, always 




PROUD LADY 


149 


finding something in the rough conditions of her work 
to disgust or hurt her. 

In Carlin’s house she found for the first time a pleas¬ 
ant way of living, gentleness, consideration, and she was 
so happy that her spirit danced and sang all day long. 
She was deeply grateful to all of them, especially to 
Laurence, for he had placed her here; she tried to show 
her gratitude in service to them all. She quarrelled 
freely, to be sure, with the Swedish cook, whose slowness 
and awkwardness provoked her contempt. But with the 
family, inspired by love, she was tactful, graceful, meek; 
even to Mary, whom she did not love, but admired from 
a distance. 

As time went on she shared more intimately in the 
life of the family. Through the children she began 
to feel thati she belonged to it. Keenly sensitive to 
anything that concerned Laurence, she was aware of 
occasional friction between him and Mary; she saw that 
he was unhappy sometimes. She began in her mind 
to criticize Mary, sometimes to be angry with her, on 
Laurence’s account; she sought out things to do for 
Laurence, put a tender thoughtfulness into the care of 
his personal belongings. She did not put herself in his 
way, at least not consciously, but naturally they were 
always seeing one another. And always her face, her 
whole being, welcomed him, glowed with pleasure when 
he stopped to talk to her or bestowed a light caress. 
The caresses grew more frequent, grew warmer, by 
insensible gradations. She came to expect his kiss when 
they met alone; and to dream of it before he came. 

Now her happiness was no longer serene and childish, 
as at first. It was poignant at moments—with intervals 




150 


PROUD LADY 


of depression and restlessness. But Nora was nearly in¬ 
capable of reflection or of looking beyond the moment; 
she had no wisdom except what love gave her, and that 
did not help her to take care of herself. 

Nora’s helplessness had always been evident to Lau¬ 
rence. He had felt that she needed to be taken care of, 
and he still felt it. He felt that he was taking care of 
her. Nora needed affection, she could not work like a 
menial without any reward but money. Money could 
not buy such service as hers. It was done for love, and 
love must be its reward—tenderness such as one would 
give to a child, or a sister. . . . Just when his affec¬ 
tionate recognition of Nora passed this line, Laurence 
could hardly have told. It was connected, though, with 
his feelings about Mary, with a wounded resentment that 
burned in him the deeper for having little expression. 
When Mary hurt him by her coldness or absorption in 
something apart from him, he was more apt to take or 
make a chance of being with Nora alone. These inter¬ 
views came to have a secret, a stolen character; snatched 
moments, a word, a look, an embrace. 

Laurence did not feel that he was doing harm to Nora. 
He did not feel anything very deeply about her—his 
strong feelings were all for other things. That he was 
irresponsible, unscrupulous, he would have denied 
blankly. But his mood was reckless. He wanted the 
comfort of Nora’s warmth, her utter acceptance of him, 
her trembling joy in his caress. From his obscure jeal¬ 
ousy, he wanted obscurely to revenge himself on Mary, 
though she was never to know that he had done so. 
Lately, Nora had shown some fear—but fear was not 
resistance. Well he knew that she could never resist 
any impulse, any desire of his. 




VIII 


O N the thick summer air, in the close room, the 
scent of flowers was overpowering. Laurence, 
standing by the door, looking round at the silent 
black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, 
felt deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one 
there grieved for the Judge, except perhaps Nora, sob¬ 
bing in a corner, and himself. Mary was upstairs, not 
able to be present. 

He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep mu¬ 
sical voice the funeral service. It was the custom to 
pronounce a panegyric on the departed; and he won¬ 
dered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically for 
some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher 
appreciate the Judge’s real qualities? But he under¬ 
rated Hilary’s honesty. In truth it was impossible for 
Hilary to praise the Judge’s life and character. It was 
not for him to betray the confidence of the old man’s 
last days, of his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting 
steps toward the unknown. So he uttered simply a 
brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the passing 
soul. In Hilary’s feeling the infinite was like the living 
air surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; 
there was no line between life and death, except for a 
personal loss. To him also, the funeral panoply was 
unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had per¬ 
haps only one or two real mourners. 

When it was all over and Laurence had returned to 

151 


152 


PROUD LADY 




the house alone, he went up to see Mary. She was 
lying in bed, in the big room they shared together; she 
looked very white and tired and had evidently been 
weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat 
by her, holding her hand. 

‘ ‘ He was a good friend to us, ’’ she said at last softly. 

“Yes, he was, indeed.” 

“He thought everything of you, Laurence.” 

“I didn’t deserve it especially.” 

“I’m sorry for him now, I’m afraid he feels very 
lonely.” 

Laurence looked at her uneasily. 

“Because, you see,” she went on slowly, “he never 
thought about his soul, till just lately, or about another 
life. It will be very strange to him. He was so 
worldly. ’ ’ 

“He was a good man,” asserted Laurence, frowning. 

“No, Laurence, he wasn’t,” said Mary with inflexible 
regret. “He was bound up in worldly things, and had 
no light. So it will be hard for him.” 

“I don’t think you are in a position to judge him,” 
said Laurence sharply. 

But then, seeing' her tears begin to flow again, he 
reproached himself and tried to comfort her with soft 
words and kisses. He resolved once more that until 
Mary was quite strong again he would not cross her 
in anything, that even if she were unreasonable he 
would remember her state and be patient. He was 
really alarmed about her, she had never been ill before, 
never in the least morbid. Several times lately she had 
frightened him by saying that she thought she would 
die when this baby was born; and dissolving in tears 




PROUD LADY 


153 


for the other two babies who would be left motherless. 
Altogether she w r as unlike herself. Laurence, pro¬ 
foundly worried, had talked to Mary’s father, who told 
him that she had had her children too fast and was 
tired out for the time, and naturally affected by the 
Judge’s illness, but that there w T as no cause for great 
alarm. But at the mere idea of losing Mary, Laurence 
was deeply shaken. He would not have said that he was 
happy with her—in fact for the past year he had 
seldom felt happy—but he couldn’t imagine being any¬ 
thing but miserable without her. He had loved her too 
long, too exclusively, to live without her. And always 
he had the hope, though sometimes unconscious, that 
she would change and love him as he wanted her to. 
That was all that was lacking, he thought, to make him 
perfectly happy. He believed in happiness and never 
ceased to expect it. 

“Laurence,” said Mary, when her tears had stopped, 
insensibly soothed by his tenderness, “I wish the Judge 
hadn’t left us that money. We didn’t need it.” 

“Well, sometimes I wish so too,” he answered thought¬ 
fully. 

He was perfectly sincere in this. At times, after 
the Judge’s will was made, the thought of the money 
had weighed on him. He disliked the feeling of obliga¬ 
tion, even to the Judge; he would have liked to owe his 
advancement to his own efforts alone. But the Judge 
had stood behind him and helped him on, in every way. 
He was grateful, and yet he was burdened by that help. 

In later years he was never able to forget it. Then 
it seemed to him that he owed his career to the Judge 




154 


PROUD LADY 


and to the condemned criminal Barclay, who had died in 
prison, for it was the Barclay case that gave him his 
professional start. He showed gratitude as best he 
could. He put up for the Judge a massive monument 
of granite; and he maintained Barclay’s children. But 
he would have preferred to be independent of any assist¬ 
ance. He was conscious of powers that could make 
their way unaided. And he disliked the feeling that 
he had not been able to mould his life just as he wished, 
that in some ways it seemed made for him by forces 
beyond his control. That feeling did not yet oppress 
him, he was still too full of youthful energy; it was 
only an occasional shadow. 

But many times, in the course of the next months, 
Laurence wished the Judge’s money at the devil or in 
the hands of his disappointed relatives. Laurence, as 
executor of the will, had to deal with innumerable de¬ 
tails and complexities that bored and bothered him; he 
hated “business.” When finally the estate was set¬ 
tled, the relatives having decided not to contest the 
will, Laurence found himself in possession of a hand¬ 
some income. The Judge had shown his faith in the 
future of Chicago by investing largely in real estate 
there; these holdings were rapidly increasing in value. 
They were in the business section and the rentals were 
high. In addition, the Judge’s house and its contents, 
and his horses, were left personally to Laurence. 

For a time, his enjoyment of these things was clouded. 
The attitude of the Judge’s relatives had stung him, in 
spite of his consciousness that his efforts alone had pro¬ 
cured them any share in the property. He was ex¬ 
tremely sensitive to disapproval, to criticism, espe- 




PROUD LADY 


155 


cially to any reflection on his independence. To feel that 
some people, perhaps many of his fellow-citizens, thought 
his relation with the Judge an interested one, that he 
might be suspected of “making a good thing’’ out of the 
Judge’s friendship, galled him deeply. He knew that 
never in his life had he used any indirect means for his 
own advancement, that he was incapable of using people 
for his own interest, and he hated to appear what he 
was not. It was more than the pride of an honest man 
in keeping his reputation clear of any spot. Laurence 
cared more than he could admit about public opinion, 
about his position in the eyes of his fellow-citizens. 
Their admiration was necessary to him. His ambition 
could be satisfied only by predominance without any 
shadow on it, any reproach or sneer. 

Professionally he understood how to keep himself safe 
from anything of that sort. There he stood on solid 
rock. His reputation for uprightness, for indifference 
to money, was unquestioned. He began to be consid¬ 
ered “eccentric”; no one could predict what cases he 
would take, what refuse, except that the more un¬ 
promising a case appeared, the more apt he was to take 
it. He made enemies, of course; but this sort of enmity 
pleased him. He liked to be called “quixotic” and to be 
accused of “tilting at windmills.” In the law he knew 
perfectly well what he was about. His law was sound; 
he worked faithfully and constantly to build up his 
knowledge. He aspired to the judicial ermine, and a 
spot upon it would have killed his pride. He would 
be known as an able and incorruptible judge. 

He would not owe his position to politics, either, if 
he could help it. Judge Baxter had been a busy pol- 




PROUD LADY 


156 


itician, and had striven to initiate Laurence into the local 
situation. But Laurence had not been interested; he 
hated wire-pulling and contests for power. Naturally 
he belonged to the party that had supported the war and 
was now all-powerful. But he wanted none of the spoils, 
at present. His political activity was confined to sup¬ 
porting what he thought good candidates and opposing 
bad ones; his test being the public welfare. He had 
identified himself more than he would have thought 
possible with his town. Its growth and prosperity had 
become important to him. He wanted the town im¬ 
proved and did not want it plundered, and had made his 
position clear. It suited him—active, and yet aloof 
from any vulgar scramble for profit. The enemies 
made for him by this activity he despised; they could 
not hurt him, he was too strong. The public esteem 
that he cared for was increased rather than otherwise 
by their opposition. 




IX 


B UT he had his vulnerable point. 

When he saw money coming in faster than he 
could spend it, piling up at the bank, he felt that 
the time had come to change their way of living. The 
house that he had wanted to live in had been in his 
mind for years. It remained only to get an architect 
from Chicago and have the plans drawn for the stately 
mansion of his dreams. 

Yes, one other thing—to persuade Mary that she 
too wanted it. 

Mary had another son now—a frail infant in whom 
her life and thoughts seemed centred. It had been a 
question whether this child would live, and she still 
watched it with anxious care. She had not fully re¬ 
covered her own health after its birth—she was thinner, 
looked much older. For the first time she was a little 
careless of her own appearance, thought nothing of her 
dress, and even her rich hair lost its lustre and some¬ 
times straggled untidily from its heavy knot. 

Laurence did not like this change in her—her total 
absorption in the nursery, her prevailing anxiety, which 
seemed to him exaggerated. His children had not 
reached the stage of development necessary to interest 
his mind. He was fond of them, proud of the two sturdy 

older ones, and concerned about the sickly youngest. 

157 


158 


PROUD LADY 


But he could not see why Mary couldn’t take a little 
interest in life outside them. It was partly his desire 
to give her another interest, something that she could 
share with him, that made him broach the subject of 
the house. He wanted a more social life—something 
that they could join in, beside mere parenthood. Mag¬ 
nificence would become Mary, if she only thought so. 
She was a beautiful and stately woman, in spite of her 
present neglect of herself, and would be in her proper 
place at the head of a big establishment. She ought 
to have more servants, to entertain, to wear rich dresses 
of silk, to be adorned with jewels. He wanted to see 
her so—he wanted more amusement, more gaiety. They 
were both young—why bury themselves in a mere daily 
round of work and care? 

Mary at first opposed his idea, but languidly, from 
mere lack of interest in it. When he grew warm and 
petulant, and passionately accused her of not caring for 
anything that he did or for any of his wishes, she yielded 
the point without more ado. It was Laurence’s money, 
of course he could do as he liked with it. She 
thought they were very comfortable as they were, but 
if he didn’t like the house and wanted a bigger one, very 
well, let it be built. One house or another was much 
the same to her. 

Laurence drove out with her one day to see the site 
he had selected—on the outskirts of the town, which 
was however rapidly growing. It was a big pasture, 
running from the road back to the edge of the lake—a 
rough piece of ground, thickly overgrown with weeds 
and with straggling willows under which the cattle 
gathered. But Laurence already saw it laid out in 




PROUD LADY 


159 


lawns and shrubbery, framing the great house of brick 
and stone that should dominate the town. Here would 
be the stables, there the gardens. There should be a 
boathouse on the lake, there should be a screen of 
rapidly-growing trees along the road, a splendid en¬ 
trance with tall gates, a graveled drive leading to the 
house. 

His face lit up as he eagerly explained it all to Mary, 
pointing with his whip, holding in the restive horses 
with a strong hand, turning the light buggy dexter¬ 
ously around the rough prairie hillocks and mud-holes. 
A bull came out of a group of cattle and looked at 
them sullenly with lowered head. The horses wheeled 
and started nervously. But Laurence with the lash of 
the whip and firm control, forced them to pass directly 
in front of the menacing animal, and continued his talk. 
Mary listened, wrapped up in her mantle, agreeing to 
all his suggestions. . . . 

It was a bright autumnal day, clear and crisp, with 
a strong breeze blowing. Yellow leaves from nut-trees 
and maples swirled in clouds along the ground and 
covered the road. Laurence wanted to drive a little 
further into the country; Mary assented, saying that 
she must be at home by six o’clock. 

“You ought to get out more—even this little drive 
has done you good, you have some colour,” Laurence 
said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. 

She smiled, shut her eyes with pleasure, feeling the 
rush of the wind as they drove against it. 

“Yes, I’d like to drive every day—you manage them 
so well.” 

‘ ‘Then we will! I ’ll try to get away for an hour each 






160 


PROUD LADY 


day, if you’ll come, Mary. . . . But you always have 
some tiresome thing to keep you at home.” 

“Do you call the children tiresome things?” she 
asked, smiling. 

“Well—I do, sometimes,” he confessed. “They take 
so much of you. ... I’d like to drive you away some¬ 
where, now, away from all of it, for a while. I wish 
we could run away together. I hardly ever see you, 
Mary! ’ ’ 

“You see me every day, except when you’re away—I 
should think you must be tired seeing me.” 

“I never see you alone, except at night and then 
you’re always tired. ... I want things arranged so you 
won’t have so much to do, so that we can have an even¬ 
ing together sometimes—go out somewhere or be alone 
together, without your having to go and sit with some 
baby or other,” said Laurence with sudden peevishness. 

“Well, you know, bringing up a family isn’t all 
pleasure,” Mary reminded him with mild reproof. 

“I should say it wasn’t! . . . But there might be a 
little. You might think about me, once in a while, and 
put on a pretty dress and sing to me, the way you used 
to. You’ll be getting old if you keep on this way!” 

“With three children you can’t expect me to look 
like a girl,” Mary protested. 

One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the 
road, both horses reared and the light buggy rocked 
dangerously. Laurence lashed them, stinging blows, 
then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them 
back on their haunches. 

“Laurence! You shouldn’t lose your temper with 
the horses,” remonstrated Mary. 




PROUD LADY 


161 


“They have to know who’s master,” he answered 
curtly. “But you make me angry, talking that way 
about yourself. You’re not thirty yet, and you want 
to live like an old woman! Why don’t you put on a 
cap and spectacles?” 

“Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. 
At thirty a woman can’t pretend to be young,” said 
Mary, smiling. 

‘ ‘ Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, 
too! You’d be more beautiful than ever if you’d take 
care of yourself. You haven’t ever worn that silk 
dress I brought you months ago.” 

“Oh, I haven’t had it made up—it’s much too gay, 
Laurence! You know I never wear colours.” 

“Well, you ought to. ... I should think you might 
want to please me, once in a while. . . . But you women! 
All you think about is children, and a man can go hang 
himself, for all you care. You wouldn’t even want him 
around, if you could have children without him! ’ ’ 

‘* How you talk! Anybody would think you didn’t 
care about the children!” 

‘ ‘ I care a lot more about you than I do about them— 
but it isn’t the same with you. What’s the use of hav¬ 
ing children if nobody’s going to enjoy life—if every¬ 
body’s just to go along doing their duty and raising 
up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, 
what’s the use of it?” 

“I don’t think the use of it is enjoyment,” said 
Mary. “It isn’t meant to be.” 

“Just like you! How do you know what it’s meant 
to be? Have you had any private revelation from God 
about it? . . . Well, I tell you that I don’t see any use 




162 


PROUD LADY 


in life if there isn’t any pleasure in it—and that I’m 
going to enjoy my life, anyhow, and when I don’t, it 
will be time to quit!” 

“Laurence, you’re a pagan,” said Mary gravely. 

“A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, 
that wants to take all the pleasure out of life! ’ ’ 

“Do you mean me by that?” she enquired gently. 

“No, I don’t mean you! You’re not a hypocrite, 
whatever else you are. . . . If you’d only unbend a little, 
once in a while, and let yourself have a good time, you’d 
be all right. But you got a lot of foolish ideas into your 
head when you were a girl—and I know who put them 
there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, 
you’re so obstinate you won’t ever give up an idea or 
anything else. You won’t change—no matter if you see 
it makes me unhappy—” 

He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they 
were both silent. They were now far beyond the town, 
out on the open prairie. Great fields of stubble from 
which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either 
side. In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the 
outlook over these endless yellow-brown flats, broken by 
dull-green marsh or dark belts of new-turned soil, was 
not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the 
prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of 
winter. In the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon 
showed where lay the great sprawling smoky city. With 
his eyes fixed on this Laurence said: 

“But I’ve known a long time that you don’t really 
care anything about me.” 

“You shouldn’t say such things—you know better. . . . 
It’s only that we don’t look at life in the same way.” 





PROUD LADY 


163 


“And you’re contented to have it so! But Dm not. 
Why can’t you see it more as I do, Mary ? I think you 
would, if you cared about me.” 

“No, I can’t, you are so personal about it. You 
want things so much for yourself, and you will always 
be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn’t given us for our 
personal pleasure.” 

“You talk like a book or an old greyhead. ... I don’t 
think it’s living at all to slide through life thinking 
about something else—not to want anything for fear 
you’ll be disappointed! I think that’s cowardly. It’s 
better to try for things.” 

“Yes, but what things? I can’t care much about 
worldly things—houses to live in and clothes to wear. I 
can’t, Laurence.” 

“You seem to think that’s all I care for,” he said 
bitterly. “But you don’t understand me and don’t 
try to. What I wanted isn’t houses and clothes! It 
was something very beautiful, to me. Something that 
would last for our whole life—and beyond it. But you 
couldn’t see it. Even now you don’t know what I 
mean.” 

The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned 
toward him and laid her cheek to his. 

“I wish I could be what you want—I wish you could 
be happy,” she said. 

“You could be, if you wanted to be! . . . No, I’m 
not happy, and I can’t be contented this way, Mary, I 
warn you, I can’t be!” 

The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent 
and impassive. He too fell into moody silence, and so 
they returned to the house. 





164 


PROUD LADY 


That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to 
see a red glare in the sky where by day hung the grey 
smudge over the city. The news came over the wires— 
Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke 
over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. 
Trains came in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into 
all sorts of vehicles, they poured in. The town opened 
its houses to the flood of terrified homeless people. All 
night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires went 
down, but each new arrival brought a story of more 
complete destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses 
bursting into flame at once, of brick buildings melting 
like wax in the furnace. By morning the city of half 
a million people was in ashes. 


\ 




X 


B UT the energy of youth does not stop long to 
mourn over destruction. Hardly had the ground 
cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was 
torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new 
city began to rise, a prouder city where brick and stone 
largely took the place of wood. Ruin was swept away 
and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to rebuild 
their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city 
spread along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger 
than ever, busier than ever, more splendid and pros¬ 
perous. 

At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought 
himself involved. His rent-producing buildings were 
gone, and the insurance companies prostrate. But the 
land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope in 
the people, became more valuable than before. Long 
before the end of the year Laurence was at ease about 
his property. And so the new house that he had 
planned began to rise from its deep foundations. 

The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal 
expression. Indeed, it had been that, from his first 
idea of it. But as time went on, more of his construc¬ 
tive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an 
immaterial way, he must still be building something. 
The house at least was his creation, all his own, and it 
became a keen interest, almost a passion. The plans 
were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he seruti- 

165 


166 


PROUD LADY 

nized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in 
watching the workmen. When from the stone founda¬ 
tion the walls began to grow, layer on layer of deep red 
brick, he sat or lounged about by the hour, smoking 
one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing 
in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire 
on the cupola, and planning the decoration of the 
stately rooms. 

Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an ef¬ 
fort to do so, and to join in his interest. But it was 
somewdiat as she might have joined in a child’s play, 
humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was 
glad to have her there w T ith him, to talk to her about it, 
to ask her advice. But the ideas were all his—she had 
not many suggestions to offer, and these were practical 
ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The scale 
of the house rather daunted her—sometimes she mur¬ 
mured that it was going to be hard to run it, with noth¬ 
ing but raw untrained servants to be had. 

“Well, you can train them,” said Laurence cheerfully. 

He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its 
niches for statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the 
library, with long windows looking out on the lake and 
a chimney-piece of dark marble reaching to the ceiling. 

He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in 
appearance—yet his plan was rather sombre than gay, 
grandiose. In spite of himself, what he chose had this 
character. The wish to make a striking effect, to im¬ 
press and dominate, was' stronger than the desire to 
please. Perhaps this came from the poverty and bare¬ 
ness of his early life—perhaps from some lingering an¬ 
cestral memories of the old world. He wanted splendour, 




PROUD LADY 


167 


but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not 
like the appearance of newness. So the colour of the 
house was dark, dark wood was used in it. When it 
came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose them of 
heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky 
red was a favorite—he used that in the hall, the 
billiard-room and the library. He wanted Mary to 
choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he 
decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy 
double curtains of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam 
of the walls, and great chandeliers to light it up on 
festive occasions. 

All this cost a great deal of money—how much, Mary 
did not enquire. She took it for granted that Laurence 
could manage his own affairs—and they both looked 
upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his, though 
of course it was left in trust to the children. That 
was a formality, the money had been meant for Lau¬ 
rence. Naturally he would not impair the capital, but 
would rather increase it, by good investments. The 
house was an investment—what could be safer than 
that ? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and 
safety of real estate. And already the value of his estate 
had increased largely. Values were going up every¬ 
where. A wave of prosperity had overflowed the coun¬ 
try. With the settling of political troubles, the new 
sense of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and 
opportunity sprang up and prevailed. The great west 
opening its riches, the quick growth of cities, fortunes 
made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning on 
every hand—the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever 
ran in their veins. Gaining and spending went hand- 




168 


PROUD LADY 


in-hand. A new luxury was spreading. Money-scan¬ 
dals spread too, and a cynical perception that those in 
high places were by no means above lining their pockets 
in alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Spec¬ 
ulation was the note of the time. Merchant princes, 
railroad barons, money kings, made a new aristocracy, 
prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living. 

These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous 
waves, had subsided into ripples before they reached the 
inlet where Mary lived; but the quiet surface of her 
life was to some degree disturbed. The restlessness of 
the time reached even her, but as something to be resisted 
as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid 
people, rather older than herself, and with these or 
with her parents, she preferred to spend what leisure 
she had. Her household mainly absorbed her energies, 
not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora, 
the care of the children was a constant occupation. The 
delicate youngest child was Mary’s special charge. He 
shared her room, sometimes banishing Laurence, who 
could not wake at night after working all day. 

The other boys, now six and five years old, were hand¬ 
some robust fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. 
The question of their education troubled Mary. She 
herself taught them to read, and began their religious 
instruction. She did not want to send them to the town 
school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate 
tenderness for them had become a grave solicitude. 
Nora petted and spoiled the boys, but Mary was their 
taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her temper 
with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was 




PROUD LADY 


169 


calm and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such 
as fibbing and disobedience, rarely caressing them. She 
felt for them much more tenderness than she showed, 
believing that it was not good for them to be petted. 
On Hilary’s advice, she had not taught her boys Greek, 
though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. 
But she taught them the Bible; they went to church with 
her, and on Sundays they had to learn and recite to her 
a certain number of verses; and she heard them say 
their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts. 

For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a 
good influence. She was too much of a child herself, 
stormy, impetuous, without any authority over the boys. 
When she could not control them, she would threaten, 
scold and at times use physical violence, always repent¬ 
ing it, though, and making up with kisses and fond 
words. Mary had forbidden her to slap the children 
and sharply reproved her when she broke any of the 
rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In 
fact her temper had become noticeably bad. 

One day in late September, after a week’s absence, try¬ 
ing a case at the county seat, Laurence was expected 
home. Nora dressed both the boys in clean white suits, 
combed their curls with nervous fluttering fingers, set 
them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran 
up to her own room to put on some adornment. The 
carriage drove up. Mary met Laurence at the door, 
and after his usual warm greeting stood a moment in 
the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his 
bags. Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the 
shrubbery. Both parents rushed out, to find the boys, 




170 


PROUD LADY 


just dragged out of a mud-puddle, daubed from head to 
foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the hands 
of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. 
Mary seized the children, ordered Nora away and re¬ 
ceived a rude answer; whereupon Laurence spoke sternly 
to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled to her 
room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild 
sobbing. She could hear too, while dressing the boys 
anew, that Laurence went in and spoke to Nora; could 
hear the firm curt tones of his voice. 

Presently he came into the nursery, and she said: 

“I really think I can’t keep Nora. I can’t have scenes 
like this.” 

“No, I’ve told her so,” said Laurence, frowning. 
“I’ve told her that she can’t speak to you like that, and 
that if she can’t control herself she’ll have to go.” 

He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no 
more at the time. Nora stayed in her room, and Mary 
gave the boys their supper and put them to bed. They 
were angelically good. As she was hearing their prayers, 
Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling fig¬ 
ures and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. 
Prayers over, the boys wanted to romp with their father, 
whom they adored, who was always gay and playful 
with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played 
with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, 
and went downstairs wuth his arm around Mary, whis¬ 
tling boyishly. Nora did not appear to serve the dinner, 
but her absence was hardly noticed. Laurence had 
much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, 
and was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took 
which would mean a big fee—a will contest, involving 




PROUD LADY 


171 


a large estate. He had taken it because the personality 
of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew and dis¬ 
liked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence 
held that a man had a right to leave his money as he 
pleased, and to disinherit a son who had offended him. 
He felt that he had been defending the just cause, and 
the elation of his victory was without blemish. 

“I shall charge them ten thousand—they’re willing 
to pay more than that. So you see, Mary, you needn’t 
worry about the price of carpets,” he laughed. 

After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, 
relaxed, tired but still talkative, smoking his big black 
cigar and watching with bright and contented eyes Mary 
at her sewing. He was always happy at returning home, 
the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And 
Mary was always glad to have him come back. She 
missed him deeply when he was away. He often brought 
disturbance, but he brought too something that she 
needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower 
current, though it might be more peaceful. 

He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his 
arrival, but Mary had not. She thought of the children 
and presently laid down her work and said that she 
must see if they were covered properly—the night had 
turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. 
A light was burning in the nursery. As she entered she 
saw Nora kneeling by one of the cribs, her face bowed, 
hidden. Nora raised her head and turned toward the 
door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean— 
that radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth 
half-opened and smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora 
dropped her eyes, all the light went out of her. She got 




172 


PROUD LADY 


up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping child. And 
Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the 
room without speaking. 

She returned to the library, took up her work again, 
listened to Laurence, responded to him, smiling tran¬ 
quilly on him; after a time moved to sit beside him at his 
behest, and answered his caress. But all the time there 
was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, 
hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister 
way disturbed even the current of her blood, made her 
heart beat heavily. It was a kind of fear, a vague 
terror of—she knew not what exactly, but something 
there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from. 

She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion 
of Laurence. Nothing of that sort had existed for her, 
it had never entered her world for an instant. Now 
she hardly recognized it, except as a formless shadow of 
evil. Deceit, treachery—could she phrase such things, 
even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poi¬ 
soned her sleep, it was there at her waking. ... In spite 
of herself, not admitting it to herself, she suspected— 
she watched. 




XI 


A WILD November night. The wind tore furiously 
across the prairie, sweeping the rain in slanting 
sheets. It was growing colder; rain became sleet; 
before morning it would be snow. 

It was nearly midnight when Mary shut the door be¬ 
hind her and gathering her shawl over her light dress, 
rushed out into the storm. She was not sure she had 
been seen, but she ran, fearful of being overtaken. The 
icy rain drove in her face, on her uncovered head, soaked 
her dress under the flapping shawl. She had not far 
to go, but she was drenched from head to foot before 
she reached Hilary’s house. She met no one in the 
street, it was not a night to be abroad. The trees tossed 
wildly overhead, letting go their last yellow leaves, the 
street-lights flickered dimly in the gale. There was a 
light in Hilary’s study. She opened the house-door 
and walked into his room without knocking. 

He was writing at his table, and sprang up as she 
entered, with a startled exclamation. She held out her 
hands to him, dropping her wet shawl, clutched his arm, 
clung to him, unable to speak. For the first time Hilary 
held her in his arms, her head with dishevelled streaming 
hair lay on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he 
had not held her. He thought she had fainted. Half¬ 
lifting her, he put her on the sofa, where she sank limp, 

and knelt beside her, putting back the wet strands of 

173 


174 


PROUD LADY 


h i. . ... 

liair from her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids 
flickered, her lips moved. 

“Mary, for heaven’s sake, can’t you tell me what has 
happened ? ’ ’ 

She heard him, nodded faintly, groped for his hand 
and clutched it as though to save herself from sinking. 
He waited while she fought to get back her hold on 
herself. For the first time in her life she had nearly 
lost consciousness, and she was terrified; it was like a 
black wave rearing over her head, threatening to engulf 
her. That feeling passed, slowly, Hilary’s grasp sus¬ 
tained her, lifted her out of the dark flood. . . . She 
drew a long sobbing breath and opened her eyes. 

“Hilary. . . .” 

She had never called him so before. 

“Yes, I’m here.” 

“I came to you. ... I came. . . . There was no¬ 
body else. ...” 

“Yes, Mary, you’re cold, you’re shivering. . . . Lie 
there a minute while I stir up the fire.” 

“Yes, but don’t go away!” 

“No, I’m not going.” 

Reluctantly she let go his hand. He shook down the 
coals of the stove, put on some sticks of wood, brought 
coverlets to put over her. 

“Mary, you’re wet through. . . . Don’t you want me 
to speak to Mrs. Lewis, get you some dry clothes?” 

“No, no—no ! I’ll be warm in a minute. ...” 

She sat up, gathered her loose hair together, trying 
to wind it into a knot. 

“Look here, Mary, I have a warm dressing-gown. 
Take off your wet dress and put it on—go into my room 




PROUD LADY 


175 


there. And take off your shoes—good heavens, you've 
only got thin slippers! Here, I’ll get you my slip¬ 
pers. ... I’ll bring the things, you can change here.” 

“No, I’m all right now. I’ll go in there.” 

She stood up and moved without faltering. When 
she came out, wrapped in the grey gown, her hair 
smoothed hack and rolled into a heavy knot, she had 
regained something of her usual manner. But she was 
deadly pale and her eyes looked dull and dazed, as 
though she had received a heavy blow. She sat down 
before the fire. Hilary sat near her, and holding his 
hand tightly in both hers, she told him in broken sen¬ 
tences what she had discovered. 

“You must tell me what to do. ... I shall never 
go back to him.” 

Hilary was silent. 

“What shall I do?” she repeated, looking imploringly 
at him. 

“But if you have made up your mind already—” 
he hesitated. 

“Not to go back? Oh, yes. . . . But where shall 
I go?” 

“Why, I should think—to your parents. Where else 
could you go ? ” 

Now she was silent, and an expression of profound 
dislike and unwillingness made her face sullen. She 
dropped Hilary’s hand and sat looking at the fire. Then 
suddenly she began to weep violently. 

It was long before she could control herself again. 
Then she was quiet, crouched before the fire, staring 
at it with a look of despair. 




176 


PROUD LADY 


Indeed the foundations of her life seemed to have crum¬ 
bled under her. She had a lost, helpless feeling. Some¬ 
thing had been violently wrenched away from her—a sup¬ 
port that she had thought secure. She had never 
thought that Laurence could fail her, she had been sure 
of him. But he had deceived, betrayed her confidence. 
He had wounded her pride in him and in herself, to the 
death. She hated his sin, she despised him for it. 
What she had seen filled her with loathing. Never 
would she forgive him. 

But now—what could she do? How make her life 
over again? Take her children and go back to her 
parents, as Hilary suggested? A woman separated from 
her husband—what a humiliating position for her! A 
public confession of failure! How could she go to her 
parents and tell them that she had made a mistake, 
that their opposition to her marriage was justified? 
And the comments of her little world, how could she bear 
those, she who had always stood so proudly above criti¬ 
cism? No matter what the reason for the separation, 
a woman who left her husband was always criticized. 
And she did not want to give her reason—not to any 
one, not even to her parents. She wanted nobody to 
know. Rather would she bury the events of this night 
in darkness. . . . 

She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If 
he had uttered a word of pity or condolence, she would 
have regretted the impulse that brought her to him. 
But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the kettle 
he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to 
steam. 




PROUD LADY 


177 


“I shall make you some coffee—you look exhausted,” 
he said. 

“Oh, don’t bother—I don’t care for it,” she pro¬ 
tested dully. 

“No bother—I often make it when I’m up late. I 
have everything here.” 

He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, 
set it back on the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the 
room. He brought a tray, with a cup, and sugar, and 
crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The coffee 
was good—she drank two cups of it and felt revived. 

“Won’t you have some?” she said, with a faint smile. 

“I haven’t another cup—but I’ll get a glass.” 

They drank together. It was warm before the fire, 
sitting there, hearing the wind roar and the rain beat 
against the windows. 

“I’d like to stay here,” said Mary dreamily. 

“To stay . . . ?” 

“Yes—tonight. Can I stay? It must be late.” 

Hilary looked at his watch. 

“Nearly three o’clock ... of course you must stay, 
you can’t go out in the rain. You can lie down on the 
sofa here—or take my bed. You ought to sleep.” 

“No, no, I don’t want to sleep. . . . But I mustn’t 
keep you up all night. You go to bed, Hilary, and I’ll 
stay here by the fire. Please.” 

“Well, after a while. . . . But Mrs. Lewis gets up 
early and I want to see her—I’ll have to tell her you’re 
here— ’ ’ 

Mary’s face darkened. For an instant she had lost 
the feeling of what had happened, now it swept back 




178 


PROUD LADY 


upon her. The morning was coming—how was she to 
face it? Laurence would know of her absence, perhaps 
knew it now. He might go to her parents, he might 
come here to fetch her. She must decide something. 

“Don’t you think I ought to leave him?” she asked, 
looking at Hilary. 

“I don’t know. Do you mean—divorce him?” he 
replied with an effort. 

“Divorce! No!” Mary exclaimed with a look of 
horror. ‘ ‘ Yon don’t believe in divorce! ’ ’ 

“I don’t believe in it,” said Hilary in a low voice. 
“Nor in separation.” 

“I know—I know you don’t. But. ...” 

“You know what I believe. That marriage is a sac¬ 
rament . . . that it can’t be broken or annulled. . . .” 

“But if one has broken it—” 

‘ 1 One may sin against it—but another’s sin does not— 
does not justify—” 

Hilary got up, putting down his glass with a shaking 
hand, and walked to the window. 

“I know. I believe as you do,” said Mary darkly. 

‘ ‘ But . . . how can I go back there ? ’ ’ 

Over the pallor of her face swept a flaming colour, 
her eyes flashed with rage. 

‘ ‘ In my own house! ’ ’ she cried hoarsely. 

She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with 
his back to her, did not see her face, but he heard her 
tone. 

“You have your children, you have your—duty,” he 
said in a trembling voice. “Just because it is hard, 
you can’t—forsake it.” 




PROUD LADY 


179 


“No,” said Mary blankly. “But ... I can’t see 
. . . I have been dutiful . . . but now—I can’t be the 

same. I can never be the same! What can I do ? ” 

“Not the same . . . but perhaps . . . better,” said 
Hilary from the window. 

“Better?” she cried in a low tone of astonishment. 

“Better—yes. . . . When one near to us fails . . . 
must we not feel we have failed, too ? . . . Can we stand 
aside, and condemn ? . . . Are we not . . . our brother’s 
keeper?” 

After these faltering' yet firm words there was silence 
for a time. Then Mary said in a hard tone : 

“I can’t see where I have failed. ... I have tried 
to do my duty, as I saw it. ... I can’t feel responsible 
for this . . . and I can never forgive it.” 

“Only love can forgive.” 

“No, that’s why I can’t forgive! ... I did love him, 
and he deceived me, insulted my love—I will never for¬ 
give him! ” 

“It’s pride that speaks—not love.” 

“You know nothing about it! You can’t know!” 

“I do know, Mary.” 

Hilary turned and faced her. 

“How can you say that? You know that I loved you 
for many years, that I loved you as any man loves a 
woman, that I wanted you for my own ... I can tell 
you now, because it has passed. It has changed. But 
I suffered what one can suffer from that feeling—and 
from jealousy. Yes, I do know. . . . And I know too 
that you have never loved any one.” 

“You are mistaken.” 




180 


PROUD LADY 


Her tone was proud and angry. But then all of a 
sudden she softened. She looked up at him and said 
with simplicity: 

“I love you, Hilary. You are the best person I’ve 
ever known. You’re like my brother . . . only you’re 
far, far above me. I always used to feel that way about 
you, and now I feel it more than ever. And I love you 
for it. . . . But there’s another kind of love . . . when 
you’re bound to a person, and they hurt you, you can’t 
love them just the same and forgive them—you can’t, 
Hilary! Because your faith has been destroyed, and 
what bound you to the person is broken, and it can never 
be the same. . . . Even if I haven’t always been per¬ 
fect, I didn’t break my faith, but he has broken it, and 
it’s gone—gone forever!’’ 

And she began to weep again, passionately. There 
was no pride about her now. She cried out her suffer¬ 
ing and loss, with heartbroken sobs. 

“I know I haven’t always been good, I’ve been hard 
sometimes and took my own way and wouldn’t give in— 
but I wouldn’t have done what he has done. ... I 
wouldn’t have deceived him or hurt him as he has hurt 
me. ... I wouldn’t have broken our marriage, but he 
has done it. . . . It shows that he didn’t care for it, it 
didn’t mean much to him. ... I thought he loved me, 
but because I wasn’t everything he wanted, he took an¬ 
other woman . . . there, in the same house with me. . . . 
And he doesn’t love her either, I know he doesn’t, he 
sinned from weakness, low temptation—oh, I wouldn’t 
have believed it of him. I knew in some ways he was 
worldly, but I always thought he was honest and sincere, 
I was proud of him . . . but now. ...” 




PROUD LADY 


181 


When she grew quiet again, and raised her tear- 
blurred face, it was to see a dim light outside the win¬ 
dows—the stormy dawn. 

“Oh, poor Hilary!” she cried. “I’ve kept you up 
all night—you haven’t slept a wink! ’ ’ 

“That’s nothing,” he answered gently. “I often 
have sleepless nights. ’ ’ 




XII 


T HEN, forgetting him, she stared at the dim light 
of the window, her eyes wide open and fixed, her 
lips parted with long shuddering sighs. Slowly 
her breathing grew quieter. Hilary watched her face. 
“Mary,” he said in low voice. 

She started, turning her blank unseeing eyes upon him. 
“Be careful what you do now. ... You are harden¬ 
ing your heart. . . . Judge not, that you be not judged. 

. . . When pain comes to us, it is a symptom, a sign 
that something is wrong in our life. We must look 
through the pain to what caused it, and set it right. We 
must do it humbly, not setting ourselves up above the 
sinner. If another has sinned against us, let us see why. 
Are we free of blame for that sin? If we had been all 
that we should have been, would this have happened? 
Let us try to understand. . . . They that have eyes to 
see, let them see. ...” 

There was no response in those blank eyes, no sign 
that she had heard. In her intense preoccupation she 
simply stared at him instead of at the window. 

Mary was making up her mind. Something in her 
heard and registered Hilary’s words; but they did not 
enter into the question that was absorbing her. This 
was a purely practical question. She had to decide 
what she was going to do now. And those well-known 
phrases uttered in Hilary’s deep urgent voice as though 
they were new—they to all appearance passed by her 
like the idle wind. 


182 


183 


PROUD LADY 

She could see already what she was going to do. She 
was not going to make a scandal, nor have any one talk¬ 
ing about her or pitying her. Enough, that she had 
complained to Hilary! . . . This thing should be as if 
it never had been, so far as her outward life went—no 
one should know. She would not “leave’’ her husband. 
But the sinner would not go unpunished. . . . She knew 
w^ell how to punish him. She knew how to make him 
suffer. . . . 

Now, resolved, she rose to her feet. 

‘ ‘ The baby! He always wakes about five—if I ’m not 
there he’ll be frightened. I must go back at once.” 

Hilary looked piercingly at her. 

“You’re going back then?” 

“Yes, I’m going back. You told me to, didn’t you?” 

Her tone and look were cool, faintly mocking. 

“It’s snowing hard,” said Hilary. 

He put out the lamp—a grey light filled the room. 

“No matter—it’s only a little way.” 

“I’ll get a carriage for you—” 

“No—I’d rather go back as I came.” 

“But you can’t—you haven’t any dry clothes—” 

“No matter—it’s only for a moment.” 

She went quickly into the bedroom, and came back 
in her limp white dress and slippers. She took the 
heavy India shawl and drew it over her head. Its 
damp folds completely covered her. Only her face was 
visible, white, composed, with a curious sinister light 
in it. 

She put her hand out of the folds to Hilary. With 
that gesture he felt her put him away. He knew he was 
included in her unforgivingness, he had become a part 





184 


PROUD LADY 


of something she wanted to banish. She would hate 
him for knowing. . . . 

‘ 1 Hilary, ’ ’ she said, ‘ 1 1 want you to promise me some¬ 
thing. Promise never to speak of this—not to any one 
else, I know you wouldn’t—but not to me. Never speak 
of it to me again.” 

He dropped her hand, stood looking at her, and slowly 
his face became as inflexible as her own. 

“You shut me out, then? ... I count for nothing 
with you? You reject what you came here for—my 
help, my . . . counsel. ...” 

“No one can help me. You can’t understand.” 

“You came to me, not for help or counsel. You came 
for sympathy, thinking I would stand with you against 
your husband. You counted on my feeling for you— 
you have always counted on it, though you would never 
admit it to yourself—” 

“I don’t know why I came. . . . But it was no 

use.” 

“No. Because you won’t let it be. You’ll go your 
own way . . . repay evil for evil. I can see it in your 
face. I always knew you had it in you. . . . Oh, Mary, 
has it all gone for nothing—all that you said you be¬ 
lieved in for so many years ? Was it all on the surface— 
the first time life comes hard to you will you throw it 
all away? . . . No, I won’t let you, I’ve cared too much 
for you—” 

“What you say is no use, Hilary. You might as well 
promise.” 

“Of course not. ... You know I won’t.” 

“Then good-bye.” 

She looked at him indifferently and turned away. 




PROUD LADY 


185 


Noiselessly she left the house. She hoped that she might 
return unseen to her home, and rejoiced that no one was 
apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, blindingly, 
and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold 
than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each 
branch and twig was ridged with snow; it lay in a broad 
unbroken sheet over all surfaces, and seemed to give out 
light in the dim dawn. 

As she approached the house, she wondered how she 
was to get in; the street-door locked with a catch and she 
had no key. But as she went up on the steps she 
heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the 
door opened to her touch; some one had turned 
the catch back. . . . She ran upstairs. Laurence 
w r as in the room, dressed, holding the child, trying 
to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her 
arms for the boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries 
ceased. 

A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence’s face 
at her entrance, but now he stood, looking pale and 
gloomy. 

“How long has he been crying?” she asked. 

“I don’t know—not very long.” 

Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit- 
lamp to heat some milk; Laurence silently helped her. 
When she had laid the baby on the bed, with his bottle, 
she said: 

“You know I went out?” 

“Yes, and I know where you went, too!” 

Laurence’s voice trembled, and his lips; she had 
noticed when he was lighting the lamp how his hands 
shook. His face showed deep lines that made him 




186 


PROUD LADY 




i ■ ■ -- - . ' . . . ■■ - . . 

look ten years older. But Mary said with icy calmness: 

“You didn’t expect me to stay here, did you?” 

‘ ‘ I know where you went,’ 9 he repeated, his eyes dully 
flaming. “You ran to him, to—” 

She was changing her dress for a warm wrapper, but 
suddenly she turned on him. 

“Is that woman in the house?” 

‘‘No—she 9 s gone.’’ 

“How is she gone—where?” 

“What does it matter to you? . . . She went to the 
station, if you want to know. She meant to take the 
first train out.” 

‘ ‘ She can’t go like that—like a thief in the night! . . . 
You are responsible toward her, Laurence.” 

“Don’t worry about my responsibility. I’ll take care 
of it.” 

“Yes, I suppose you will.” 

His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, search¬ 
ing, piercing. 

“And you,” he said thickly, “are responsible to me.” 

“For what?” 

“For this whole thing—it’s your fault.” 

“Is it indeed?” 

“It is! . . . and your action tonight proves it. Fly¬ 
ing out of the house—to your lover.” 

Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her 
wet shoes and stockings. She laughed—ironical laugh¬ 
ter, deep with scorn. 

“Yes, laugh! I know it’s true! . . . Oh, I don’t 
know what your actions have been, how can I know ? . . . 
But I know your feeling, I know it hasn’t been with me, 




PROUD LADY 


187 


but with some one else. You married me with that feel¬ 
ing in your heart—you did me a great wrong. I 
couldn’t stand it. . . . For what I’ve done that’s wrong, 
by God, you ’re responsible! ’ ’ 

Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the 
cord of the dressing-gown round her waist. She looked 
at him with cutting contempt. 

“I don’t care what you think. . . . But if I were a 
man I wouldn’t try to shift my responsibility for my 
own sins to some one else.” 

“Will you take your own responsibility? Do you see 
that you’ve been wrong toward me?” 

“No. I see that you’re trying to throw the wrong on 
me to save yourself. Perhaps you want me to ask your 
forgiveness ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, by God, I do.” 

She looked at him, under her long lids, with a blue icy 
gleam. Silence fell—charged throbbing silence; all 
the bitterness of those spoken words, all their venom, 
distilled in it. Words that sting and burn like fire— 
that leave ineffaceable scars. . . . 

Laurence waited a moment, then with a look of rage 
and anguish at her as she stood with averted face, he 
went out of the room, and she heard him leave the house. 
She was standing by the window, she saw him pass, his 
hat pulled down over his eyes, his coat flapping open. 
He disappeared in the veil of snow. A sharp pang shot 
through her. But she stood motionless. 

On the bed the baby lay sucking at his bottle, hold¬ 
ing it lovingly with his frail hands, making gurgling 
contented sounds. And now she heard the other chil- 




188 


PROUD LADY 


dren in the nursery, she must attend to them, there was 
no one else now to do it. 

She was busy with the children for some hours. 
Then, leaving them all together in the nursery, she went 
into the big bedroom which had been Laurence’s as 
well as hers, and set about removing all his clothes and 
other belongings into the smaller room at the back 
of the house where he sometimes slept. This room 
she arranged carefully, with her accustomed neat¬ 
ness, putting everything in convenient order, see¬ 
ing that the lamp was filled and a fire laid ready for 
lighting. 

In going and coming she had to pass the closed door 
of Nora’s room. At last she stopped at this door, hesi¬ 
tated a moment, then flung it open. The room was 
swept and empty of all personal belongings—only there 
lingered a faint stale scent—Nora had been given to 
cheap perfumes. A look of disgust contracted Mary’s 
pale face. She took out the key, locked the door on the 
outside, opened a window in the hall and flung the 
key far out into the snow. 

She went once more into the neighbouring room and 
took from the table something she suddenly recollected 
to have seen lying there among Laurence’s papers. It 
was a little leather case, containing a daguerreotype 
of herself, done at the age of sixteen. She had given 
it to Laurence when they were betrothed, and he had 
carried it through the four years of the war. The case 
was worn and shabby. She opened it and looked at the 
picture—a charming picture it was. The graceful 
dress, with its full skirt, and frilled fichu covering the 




PROUD LADY 


189 


girlish shoulders, the pure oval face framed in banded 
hair. . . . Laurence had loved it. 

Mary took it into her room, and with tears running 
down her cheeks, she seized the fire-tongs, smashed the 
picture to pieces, and threw the whole thing into the 
waste-basket. 







PART THREE 





I 


L OUNGING in an elegant attitude of ease against 
the stone balustrade, a tall youth of seventeen 
was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, 
and languidly regarding the scene before him. There 
was not much to excite his interest. Passing vehicles 
were hidden from view by a thick screen of maple trees 
and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys 
were playing croquet—he glanced at them with lofty 
scorn. A gardener was clipping the evergreen hedge 
which divided the lawn from the flower-garden. He was 
attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made a 
dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away 
by shouts and brandished mallets. 

An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the 
lawn on three sides. Tall iron gates, with lamps at the 
sides, stood open expectant. The two iron deer on either 
side of the driveway also stood in an expectant attitude, 
their heads raised and nostrils dilated. 

Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the 
leaves of the maples. With every gust of the fresh 
breeze the leaves fell, littering the neatly trimmed 
bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloud¬ 
less blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists 
and thick heat had been broken by this first breath of 
autumn. 

An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey 

horses and driven by a coachman in a bottle-green coat, 

193 


194 


PROUD LADY 


turned in through, the iron gates. The boys stopped 
their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve 
draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. 
The youth on the steps hastily threw away his cigarette 
and concealed the holder, as he went down to assist his 
mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on his 
with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken 
skirts. He took her furred wrap and books and card- 
case ; and they mounted the long curving flight of stone 
steps together. 

They were of the same height, and there was a strong 
resemblance between them, though the boy was much 
darker in colouring; with chestnut hair and dark grey 
eyes. His face was less delicately shaped, heavier, but 
had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy 
lids, looked slumbering and secret. 

(Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was 
girlish in line. Her auburn hair was less bright in 
colour, but as thick as ever, without a touch of grey. She 
wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down 
over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal 
lines, the only mark of age in her calm face. Her hand¬ 
some dress followed the fashion but a distance, with fewer 
frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had stood the 
test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek¬ 
bones, her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine model¬ 
ling of her face. 

“ There’s a telegram,” said Jim. 

He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and 
read it, standing at the foot of the stairs. 

“From your father. He won’t be back tonight— 
detained on business.” 




PROUD LADY 


195 


A look of relief crossed Jim’s face. 

“Well—it must be dinner-time,” he said. 

In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike 
the hour of six. 

“ I ’ll be right down, ’ ’ said Mary. 11 Call the boys in. ’ ’ 

When she entered the dining-room she found her 
three sons seated and the soup on the table, in its silver 
tureen. She ladled it out, and a middle-aged waitress 
in black dress and white apron distributed the plates. 
A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased 
on Mary’s entrance; both now sat in silence, looking 
sulkily at their plates. The waitress left the room. 

“Well, what’s the trouble now?” Mary enquired 
with a touch of irony. 

‘ ‘ I don’t want Timothy to ride my horse, that’s what! ’ ’ 
declared Jim, in his slow heavy voice. “He doesn’t 
know how to ride. Last time he nearly lamed—” 

“No such thing—the old horse cast a shoe, that’s 
all, ’ ’ interrupted Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. 
“It isn’t your horse any more than it’s mine, anyway—” 

“It is. Father gave it to me—” 

“He said I was to learn to ride on it—” 

“He didn’t say you were to take it when I want it, 
and lame it— ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I didn’t lame it, confound you! ’ ’ 

“Timothy!” 

Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy 
glanced at her resentfully. 

“That will do, now. I won’t have any such language 
here—or any quarrelling either.” 

Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look 
across the table at Jim, who responded by a slight 




196 


PROUD LADY 


superior smile. Jim was self-controlled and knew how 
to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally 
put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal 
decision was almost certain to be given on the side of 
Jim, and both boys knew this. Timothy bent his black 
brows, smarting under a familiar sense of injustice. 
But Jim’s certainty of triumph was tempered by a 
shade of caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to 
a fight, had more than a chance to beat him. Timothy 
never knew when he was beaten. 

At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood 
Laurence’s vacant chair—a stately carved armchair, 
like hers. A cover was laid for him, as always; for his 
presence was never certain, always possible. At the 
right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a 
boy of fourteen, blond and pale. His large grave blue 
eyes rested now on Jim’s face, now on Timothy’s, now 
sought his mother’s, with a troubled wistful look. His 
face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad 
open brow and square chin, it had strength too. 

The setting sun struck into the room between the 
heavy looped curtains of plush and lace, cast a red 
light over its dark walls and carpet, its shining mahog¬ 
any, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre of 
the table covered with heavy white damask stood a 
massive silver arrangement holding bottles of oil and 
vinegar, salt, pepper and spices, and serving also for 
decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry and claret were 
placed on either side. 

The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and 
dispensed vegetables with a liberal hand. The con¬ 
tinued silence did not disturb her; it was usual at 




PROUD LADY 


197 


meals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She 
pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with 
calm pride at her offspring. They were all handsome 
boys. Timothy was very like Laurence, Jim was like 
her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he 
did not resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. 
He was like a stranger in the family; in mind and char¬ 
acter too he was strange to them all. Yet with an 
unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to 
know them better than they knew one another. Long 
illness—he had never grown strong—had perhaps given 
this delicacy to his mind as it had to his body. Yet he 
seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were 
broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with 
broad palms and long sensitive fingers, curiously united 
strength and delicacy. 

He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in 
themselves, took it as a matter of course. But he, 
depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched the beef and 
heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father’s 
empty chair regretfully. 

Mary’s eye at length fell upon Jim in the act 
of filling his claret-glass for the third time. She 
frowned. 

“I’ve told you that I don’t want you to drink more 
than one glass of wine at meals, ’ ’ she said. 

“Oh, this light wine—Father doesn’t mind,” said 
Jim easily. 

“He doesn’t want you to drink . And I won’t have 
it. I won’t have wine on the table at all if you can’t 
do as I wish.” 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. 




198 


PROUD LADY 


“Ok, well, let’s not quarrel about it,” he murmured, 
and pushed away the wine-glass. 

His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But 
Mary knew that Jim was not so easily managed as 
that. He would seem always to yield to her wishes, 
would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost 
always to do as he pleased. He had an unsounded 
depth of quiet obstinacy. And he was secretive too, 
never explained himself. Timothy was much more 
frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting 
into hot water and usually was in a state of revolt. 
Mary’s rules were strict and not elastic to the needs 
and impulses of growing youth. She had felt strongly 
the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, 
and of repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While 
they were very young she had succeeded in teaching 
them to tell the truth, to respect other people’s property 
rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards of 
behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost 
touch with them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked 
after their health, their schools; they found their amuse¬ 
ments for themselves. Withdrawn in growing isolation, 
in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her 
spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with 
theirs. While in infancy they depended completely 
upon her and she could suffice to all their wants, they had 
given her contentment. Now it was no longer a simple 
relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing 
complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a 
feeling that her duty was not done, but she did not 
know how to do it; her rule of life was too simple, too 
rigid, to meet its problems. 




PROUD LADY 


199 


John’s childhood had lasted longer than the others; 
his ill health had made him longer dependent on her 
physical care. But here a rival affection had taken 
John’s love and interest away from her. . . . When 
John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted 
on nursing him, devoted himself day and night to the 
hoy; and through the long convalescence, spent with him 
all the time he could wrest from his business. From 
that time, John had depended on his father in a way 
that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a 
feeling that grew as he grew. With passionate reject¬ 
ing jealousy she stood apart; felt herself superseded; 
would not, could not, make an effort to recover her 
hold. John had been all hers; she would not share 
his love, though he made many timid efforts to draw 
her in. She felt her loss the more bitterly that he was 
the most beautiful of her children; he was, she knew, 
the flower of them all. There was something in him 
that hurt her by its beauty; the same thing that she 
had felt in her youth, sometimes in music, sometimes 
in a human expression. Something that called to her 
spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her 
restless. Something that she had missed in life, had 
never been able to grasp, to realize. 

She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a 
surface contentment, a pride merely in being the mother 
of three fine lads and in the outward show of authority; 
in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as the wife 
of a man of distinction and power, commanded public 
respect. And then, she had made a place for herself in 
the life of the town. She was an intellectual leader 
among the -women; president of their literary society; 




200 


PROUD LADY 


a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. 
So long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be 
counted upon for faithful, even arduous work. But 
she would not suffer any rivals; would engage in no 
contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before 
opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her 
influence and activity being almost a tradition, any 
sister who might have dared approach the throne would 
be suppressed. 

The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. 
That is, the two elder boys vanished, to continue their 
disagreement about the horse. Mary walked absently 
into the library, having in mind the composition of a 
paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. 
She stood for a moment by one of the long windows, 
looking out on the lake. 

The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of 
rough pastures and the loneliness of the prairie, she 
saw now green lawns sloping down to the dull-blue 
water; dotted on its banks were modern houses sheltered 
by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats 
rode on its surface. The clear golden light of evening 
lay over all; the branches of the trees waved and the 
water rippled in the fresh breeze. Merry voices rose 
from the lake; some one in a boat was singing. 

A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. 
John stood there, his footstep had made no noise on 
the thick carpet. 

“It’s such a beautiful evening. Don’t you want to 
come out with me on the lake, Mother?” he asked in 
his rather nervous fluttering voice. 




PROUD LADY 


201 


“I’d like to—but I have some work to do,” she said 
quickly. 

She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactiv¬ 
ity and mere contemplation of any scene, however 
lovely; indeed, the lovelier it was, the more painful. 
But now she saw John’s wistful and disappointed look. 

“Won’t any of the boys go with you?” she asked 
gently. 

“No, I don’t think so, they’ve gone out to the 
stable. . . . Did Father say when he’d be home?'” 
he asked, hesitatingly. 

“No, he never does.” 

With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward 
her desk. But then she stopped and with an effort 
said: 

“I will go with you, John, if you want.” 

“No, never mind—I thought you might like it, it’s 
such a nice evening—but you’re busy—” 

“No, I have time enough, I’ll just get my cloak.” 

But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he 
protested: 

“I’d rather not—really. I know you don’t like the 
boat so very much, only I thought. . . . I ’ll go myself. ’ ’ 

He moved toward the door. 

“Perhaps Timothy would like to go—” 

1 ‘ No, he won’t—but no matter, I rather like to 
drift around, alone, and look at the water.” 

“Shall I play to you a little, first?” asked Mary. 

His face lighted up. 

“Why, yes—if you have.time—” 

She led the way across the hall, where the lights had 
just been lit and gleamed on the dark-red walls and the 





202 


PROUD LADY 


bronze statues of Mercury and the Venus of Milo. The 
grand piano stood in one of the parlours: its glossy lid 
was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and 
listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, 
the “Grand Sonata” of Beethoven, the only one she 
knew by heart. She made many mistakes, her fingers 
were stiff from lack of practice; but still she played 
conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. 
John sat facing the window and the fading golden light. 
She glanced at him. His face had a look of unearthly 
radiance and joy that shot a sharp pain through her. 
With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her 
head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in 
silence. He drew a long breath. 

“Thank you—that’s wonderful, I love it,” he said. 

“I wish I could play it better,” said Mary huskily. 
“I must practise.” 

“You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother,” he 
repeated softly. Then, hesitating, looking at her, he 
got up. 

“ I ’ll go out now and row a while. ’ ’ 

She nodded, and he went. 




II 


S HE sat at her desk, looking over her notes on 
^Eschylus, now and then writing a few words on a 
large sheet of paper. Then she would stop and 
look fixedly before her, trying to concentrate her 
thoughts. It was ten o’clock, the two younger boys 
were in bed. But Jim was off somewhere. And he 
had taken the black horse, Laurence’s own horse, that 
the boys were forbidden to touch—a big powerful brute, 
hard to control. Lately Jim had often been out at night. 
She did not know where he went, and he would not 
tell. He would say easily, “Oh, I just went for a ride, 
there’s nothing to do in this dead place.” But she 
suspected that he found something to do; he might be 
getting into bad ways. She thought he smoked, in 
spite of her prohibition; certainly he showed a taste 
for drink; there were other vices, too. Her lips were 
compressed bitterly as she thought, such tendencies were 
inherited. Perhaps Jim couldn’t help himself. . . . 

The big house was silent as the tomb. On the desk 
burned a shaded lamp, the rest of the room was in 
darkness. It was rather cold, the fires had not been 
lighted yet. The house with its thick walls of brick 
was almost always chilly unless the furnaces were going. 
She drew her black wrap closer round her shoulders, and 
bent over her notes. 

Then she heard the door-bell faintly sounding. After 

a moment there was a knock and Anna came in, the 

203 


204 


PROUD LADY 


middled-aged woman who waited on the table and the 
door. 

“Mrs. Carlin—there’s somebody here that wants to 
see you. He asked for Judge Carlin, and says he’ll 
wait to see him.” 

“Wait? But he may not be home for days! Who 
is it?” asked Mary impatiently. 

“An old—an old gentleman. He didn’t give his name. 
He says he’d like to see you,” said Anna neutrally. 

“Where is he? What does he want?” 

“He didn’t sav. He’s in the hall.” 

Mary rose and went out, stately in the black mantle 
that wrapped her from head to foot, its collar of black 
fur framing her face. The stranger stood, holding his 
hat in his hand, contemplating the bronze statue of 
Mercury. He was a small grey-haired man, in a shabby 
but neat dark suit. Some client of Laurence’s, she 
thought. She spoke to him. 

‘ ‘ Good evening. Did you want to see Judge Carlin ? ” 

He turned and looked at her. His thin smooth-shaven 
face showed a rather shy, pleasant smile. 

“Yes—I’m Laurence’s father,” he said, in a gentle 
laughing tone. 

Mary stared at him. 

“I don’t wonder you’re surprised. ... I was passing 
through here, and thought I’d like to see you all,” the 
old man said, without the slightest embarrassment. 
“But I hear Laurence isn’t at home.” 

“No—but he may be—tomorrow, or almost any time,” 
stammered Mary, at a loss. 

“Well, then, I’ll come again. I may be in town a day 
or so.” 




PROUD LADY 


205 


‘ ‘ But—why, you must stay here, of course , 9 9 protested 
Mary blankly. 

“Oh, I couldn’t think of discommoding you — 99 

“Discommoding? Why, of course not. Come right 
in. I’ll get a room ready for you at once.” 

“Please don’t let me give any trouble,” he pleaded, 
smiling. “I can stay at the hotel quite well.” 

“Hotel? Of course not,” she said, bewildered. 

What a queer old man, to drop from the skies like 
this—and so perfectly at his ease about it! Was he 
Laurence’s father or an impostor? Was it right to take 
him in? He did not look as if he had money enough 
to stay at the hotel. Certainly she couldn’t turn 
Laurence’s father out! 

“Come in,” she repeated with an effort, turning 
toward the library doors, then stopping. “Wouldn’t 
you like some supper?” 

“No, thank you, I dined at the hotel.” 

“Is your baggage there? I’ll send for it.” 

“No baggage. I haven’t any,” he said, with his 
whimsical smile. “I travel light.” 

In consternation Mary led the way into the library. 
No baggage! He must be a vagabond. To disappear 
for twenty-five years, and come back like this, as if 
it were yesterday! It was certainly not a respectable 
proceeding. He hadn’t even an overcoat. Nothing 
but the worn felt hat, which he had still carried in his 
hand as he followed her—as if he were a casual visitor, 
come to stay half an hour. . . . 

She felt the chill of the big dimly-lit room, and went 
toward the chimney-place. “There’s a fire all ready 
here—” 




206 


PROUD LADY 


“Let me light it,” he said. 

Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in 
a moment had the fire going. The kindling blazed up, 
the dry wood caught. A more cheerful light brightened 
the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and deep, 
it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire. 

They sat down, before it, in armchairs facing one 
another. The old man spread his hands to the blaze with 
enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary with admiration, 
then wandered round the room. 

“You have a fine place here,” he said cheerfully. 
“How long have you lived here?” 

“Ten years, Laurence built the house.” 

She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying 
to find some resemblance to Laurence. 

“Yes, so I heard. . . . Laurence has certainly done 
well, remarkably well. I always thought he would—he 
was a smart boy,” said this strange parent calmly. 

No, he wasn’t at all like Laurence, there was no resem¬ 
blance in his spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to 
. . . yet there was something familiar in his look. 
What was it ? Something in the way his thick grey hair 
grew over his forehead, his eyebrows. . . . Why, yes, he 
looked like Jim—or was it Timothy ? She had a sudden 
conviction, anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be. 

With the assurance that this was a member of the 
family (however unworthy) the duty of hospitality 
became manifest. Again she urged him to have some¬ 
thing to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation 
of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly: 

“Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?” 

“Thank you—if it doesn’t trouble you too much— 




PROUD LADY 


207 


wine, or a little whiskey—whatever is most convenient.” 

Comprehending what he wanted, she brought from the 
dining-room a silver tray, with decanters of whiskey 
and water, a glass and some biscuits. The old man 
poured himself a modest drink, a third of a glass of 
whiskey with a little water, and bowed to her. 

“I drink your good health. . . . Yes, Laurence is a 
fortunate man.” 

“He has been very successful,” she said gravely. 

“All the heart could desire—position, w T ealth, a fine 
family,*’ he continued musingly. “I’m glad to find him 
so well off. . . . Circumstances have prevented me from 
knowing anything of it until today, when I reached 
town.” 

Circumstances! Mary gazed at him in mute astonish¬ 
ment. With an absent air he filled his glass again and 
gazing at the fire went on, in a tone of meditative detach¬ 
ment : 

“I have been a wanderer for the last quarter of a 
century—a rolling stone. Much of the time I’ve been 
out on the coast—California and so on—I went out there 
in fifty-five. . . . But I’ve seen the whole country—a fine 
big country it is. I never liked to stay long in one place, 
I ’ll soon be moving on. But passing through Chicago, I 
thought I’d like to see what remained of my family. . . . 
Great changes—I didn’t know till I reached here and 
enquired, that they were all gone, except Laurence. . . . 
Things change quickly, in this country. Chicago has 
grown to an immense city, since I saw it last—and this 
town too, has become very flourishing. I shouldn’t 
have known it. . . . And all over the west, cities spring¬ 
ing up, there is hardly a frontier any more, the old days 





208 


PROUD LADY 


are gone, the rough pioneer life. The whole country, 
almost, is settled, civilized. ... Yes, a great country, 
a great people.” 

He basked in the warmth and drank his whiskey with 
gentle enjoyment, gazing into the brilliant coals as 
though seeing there the whole vast panorama that had 
passed before his eyes. Mary listened to him and looked 
at him with a kind of fascinated surprise. He talked 
like a visitor from the moon—so aloof, contemplative, 
as if he had no concern in all this. . . . An old man 
who had deserted his family, run away, never had 
known whether they were alive or dead, nor cared, ap¬ 
parently. Disgraceful! A disreputable old man! . . . 
Yet there he sat, perfectly at his ease, with no shadow 
of guilt, remorse, or regret on his placid countenance. 
His grey eyes were clear and bright. His face was 
wise and experienced, but hardly at all wrinkled, it had 
a queer look of youth. His clothes were almost thread¬ 
bare, but they were clean,—his boots cracked on the side, 
but well polished. His hands w T ere those of a working¬ 
man, broad and stubby; but they showed no traces now 
of hard work, the fingernails were clean and carefully 
trimmed. He smiled at her. 

“You are Laurence’s wife—but I don’t know your 
name,” he said with a twinkle of amusement, but 
courteously. In spite of her disapproval, she could not 
but smile at him as she answered. 

“Mary—a beautiful name, I always liked it. And 
you are Dr. Lowell’s daughter—I remember you as a 
slip of a girl, with wonderful flowing hair. . . . And 
I remember your parents too. Are they living?” 

‘ 1 My mother died two years ago, ’ ’ said Mary. 




PROUD LADY 


209 


4 ‘Ah, that was a loss, a great loss—I remember her, a 
strong woman, impressive. . . . And your father—he 
goes on with his work?” 

“Oh, yes,” Mary answered with astonishment. 

Of course he went on with his work, why shouldn’t 
he ? . . . But it came to her with a shock that her father 
was really an old man, that people thought of him as old. 

“I don’t know what this town would do without 
Father,” she said quickly. “People depend on him—” 

She gazed pointedly and with a certain defiance at 
old Mr. Carlin, who waved any possible comparison aside 
with a smile and a word of hearty commendation of Dr. 
Lowell; and went on to enquire about other old resi¬ 
dents of the town, showing an accurate memory. A 
third time he refilled his glass, and that emptied the 
decanter. The whiskey had not the least visible effect 
on him. His hand was as steady, his eye and speech as 
clear and unmoved, as Mary’s own. She heard the 
clock strike eleven, then the half hour, but still he 
chatted on, and she was aware that she was entertained 
by him. Yes, he was an amusing, though a scandalous 
old man; and conducted himself with propriety, even 
grace, though all the time drinking whiskey as if it 
were water. 

At length he spoke of his grandchildren. Among 
other information he had acquired this, that they were 
three in number and all boys. Now he politely asked 
their names. Mary repeated them. 

“Timothy?” he questioned with surprise. 

“Yes, we named him after you,” said Mary gravely. 

“After me!” 

For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his 




210 


PROUD LADY 


face. He set down his glass, and looked at her with eyes 
troubled by that gleam of feeling, almost distress. 

“Why did you do that?” he asked abruptly. 

“Why, James was named after my father, you see,” 
Mary explained. “So it was only right that the second 
boy should be named after you. It’s a matter of family 
feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our 
youngest boy is named for my grandfather. ’ ’ 

“Family feeling,” he repeated, mechanically. 
“Named after me. ... So there’s another Timothy 
Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope—” he 
stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and 
drained it. “I appreciate your remembering me, 
though I didn’t expect it in the least. I—I am touched 
by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially my 
—namesake.” His voice was a little uneven. 

“You will see them tomorrow. . . . But now, it’s 
late, you must be tired. Shall I show you to your 
room? ” 

He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as 
she went, she led the way through the lofty entrance- 
hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, into the best spare- 
room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence often 
brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and 
the old man stood gazing round with a deprecating 
smile. It was a big room, with high ceiling, furnished 
rather elaborately with carved black walnut, enormous, 
heavy pieces. 

“It’s much too grand for me,” he said, humorously. 
“I shall rattle around here like a dried kernel in a 
shell. . . . However, I thank you for your hospitality.” 




PROUD LADY 


211 


“Isn’t there something I can get for yon, something 
you need?” 

“No, thank you, my dear, I don’t need anything,” 
said the old man, with his former manner of gentle 
cool composure. 




Ill 


T HE following day Laurence returned on the mid¬ 
afternoon train, but stopped at his office, sending 
on a friend he had brought with him in a hack 
with the valises. This was Horace Lavery, a Chicago 
lawyer, rather a frequent visitor at the house. Mary 
was in the garden when the hack drove up, and came 
round to see if it were Laurence. She gave Lavery a 
stately, somewhat cool greeting. He was a man of mid¬ 
dle age, florid and rather stout, gay and talkative. Al¬ 
ways a little dashed at first by Mary’s manner, he would 
speedily recover himself and amuse himself in his own 
way. Now, a little embarrassed, he said, after dismis¬ 
sing the hackman: 

“Well, here I am again. Laurence stopped down 
town, he’ll be home by seven. . . . Can I go upstairs 
and brush off, it was rather a dusty ride.” 

“Yes, but not the usual room, we have another visi¬ 
tor—the one next to it.” 

“And shall I find you here when I come down?” 
“I’m working in the garden.” 

“Perhaps I can help?” 

“If you do, you’ll get yourself all dusty again.” 
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said effusively. “So long 
as it’s in your service.” 

Mary laughed and turned away. She always laughed 
at Lavery’s ponderous gallantry. But under the sen- 

212 


PROUD LADY 


213 


timental surface that he presented to her there was 
another man, of whom she caught occasional glimpses 
that interested her. At present, however, she was vexed 
at his coming. She preferred to see Laurence alone, 
to break to him the news of his parent’s reappearance. 
And what would Lavery, with his glossy freshness of 
apparel and man-of-the-world air, think of a shabby 
parent, suddenly produced? She didn’t care, though, 
what Lavery thought, except that it might vex Lau¬ 
rence. She wished she had telegraphed him. She 
might send down to the office . . . but no, he would be 
immersed in work, and only the more upset by it. She 
went slowly back into the garden, a favourite spot with 
her; it had been laid out years ago by her father, and 
he often came to help her with it. 

Dr. Lowell had enjoyed having a good deal of money 
to spend on a garden. It was enclosed by a brick wall 
covered with creepers on two sides, the house on the 
third side, the other open, overlooking the lake. There 
were gravel-walks, white wooden benches and trellises, 
and in the centre, a sun-dial. The flower-beds had 
been touched by the frost; but still blooming were 
verbenas and many-coloured asters. The dead leaves 
had been raked up and smouldered here and there in 
blackened heaps, sending out a sweet pungent smoke. 
Mary, bareheaded, in a long black cloak, was down on 
her knees digging up bulbs when Lavery approached, 
freshly groomed and enveloped in a delicate scent of 
Florida-water. 

“Let me do that,” he urged, bending over her. 

“What? In those immaculate clothes? You don’t 
mean it.” 




214 


PROUD LADY 


“I do—I’ll sacrifice tlie clothes. Please get up and 
let me dig the onions.” 

‘ ‘ Onions! These are very rare bulbs, of a Chinese 
lily—they have to be handled with great care and I 
always do it myself. So you may as well sit down there 
and smoke your cigar. Some people are made to be 
ornamental, you know, and others to be useful. ’ ’ 

“And some are both,” said Lavery, looking down on 
her heavy rippling hair. “And again, others are 
neither. ’ 9 

He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by. 

“Of course I know I’m not handsome,” he observed. 
“So that was rather a nasty dig of yours about being 
‘ornamental.’ But you made one mistake. I am 
useful.” 

“Are you? For what?” enquired Mary, carefully 
separating bulbs. “I always thought you just a bright 
butterfly.” 

“You never thought about me at all,” he declared 
with emphasis. “But I have thought a good deal 
about you.” 

He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut 
the end of the cigar neatly, and lit it with a match from 
a gold box. Then clasping his broad white hands about 
his knee, he contemplated Mary’s grave profile. She 
seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at 
him, nor betray by the flicker of an eyelash any interest 
in what he thought. Still less did she enquire into it. 
The silence lasted until he broke it, petulantly. 

“Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?” 

“I don’t dislike you—at least I think not.” 

“You think not! Don’t you know whether you do 




PROUD LADY 


215 


or not? ... You strike me as a person who would know 
her own 1 mind! ’ ’ 

“Yes—but I’m not very quick about making up my 
mind. I don't feel I know you at all well.” 

“You’ve known me for two years. . . . How long 
does it take you to make up your mind ? ’ ’ 

“Well, that depends—longer now than it used to. I 
don’t feel that I know very much about anybody. I 
used to be more sure about things.” 

She lifted the last of the bulbs into the basket, and 
rose to her feet. 

“Won’t you sit here and talk to me a little? ... I 
almost never have a chance to talk to you alone—that’s 
why we don’t know one another better.” 

She looked at him and smiled faintly, but the shadow 
of sadness and weariness did not lift from her 
face. 

“I have some things to see to in the house—and then 
I must dress—” 

“But it’s hardly five now.” 

“Yes.” 

She sat down on the bench, brushing the dust off 
her black cloak. 

“I like,” said Lavery discontentedly, “to be friendly 
with people. I don’t like to be held off at arm’s length 
and looked at as if I were a queer beetle or something— 
or not looked at, that’s even worse!” 

“Do you think I do that?” Mary enquired. 

“Yes, you do! You treat me as if I were hardly a 
human being!” 

“Oh, how absurd! . . . You’re a different kind of 
human being, that’s all, you belong to a different world.” 




216 


PROUD LADY 


“How a different world? I’m Laurence’s friend, 
why can’t I be yours?” 

A sudden sternness, a definite recoil, in her expres¬ 
sion, warned him off this ground. 

“How could you be my friend? There is nothing in 
common between you and me,” she said coldly. 

“Now, how do you know there isn’t? You say your¬ 
self you don’t know me! . . . But I think you’ve made 
up your mind that you don’t want to . . . you think 
I’m frivolous and ridiculous, because I manage to enjoy 
life, don’t you now? A middle-aged butterfly, a mere 
sensualist—isn’t that it?” 

“Well—something like that,” Mary admitted. “But 
it oughtn’t to matter to you what I think. ... I told 
you I don’t understand people very well, the older I get 
the less I understand them, and I can’t make friends.” 

This quiet statement had an air of finality. He was 
silent, looking at her thoughtfully, with a keen shrewd¬ 
ness, a questioning puzzled gaze. 

“Well, friends or not, I admire you very much,” 
he said abruptly. “I hate to have you think me such 
a poor creature.” 

“I imagine it won’t disturb you very much, if I do. 
You wouldn’t care much for any woman’s opinion, you 
like to amuse yourself with women but you don’t take 
them seriously, you look down on them. You think 
they’re all alike and that a few compliments and pretty 
speeches are all they want or can understand. You 
like to take them in, and then laugh at them, it amuses 
you. . . . And men too—you like to play with people, 
try experiments. You’re more cool-headed and sharp 
than most people, you think almost every one is a fool. 




PROUD LADY 


217 


in some way or other, and yon like to find ont how— 
turn them inside out. That’s how you enjoy life.” 

“Well, by Jove!” Lavery stared at her. “So you 
have given me some attention, after all—I wouldn’t 
have guessed it! Now, do you know, you ’re right about 
some things, but that isn’t the whole story—” 

Mary stood up and took her basket. 

“No, I suppose not, but I must go in now.” 

Reluctantly he rose, and walked with her to the door. 

“You’re a severe judge—you won’t even let the 
criminal speak in his own defence,” he said with some 
feeling. “ ‘Give every man his deserts and who should 
’scape hanging?’ Don’t you think you might show a 
little mercy?” 

“I believe in justice,” said Mary, with a sudden 
hardening of her face. “That’s what we all get—not 
mercy. ’ ’ 

The bitterness of her tone remained with him after she 
had gone. . . . He told himself that he would make her 
talk yet, he would find out what was the trouble in this 
household, the shadow that hung over it. He had tried 
to find out from Laurence, but in vain; even when he 
was drunk, Laurence wouldn’t talk about his wife. 

Mary was dressed and listening for Laurence long 
before he came. Her father-in-law had disappeared 
for the whole afternoon, and had not yet returned; he 
had told her that he was going for a long walk, and 
John had accompanied him. Mary perceived that the 
cld man was very tactful. She had seen it in his meet¬ 
ing with his grandsons, the manner in which he at once 
took a certain place with them. He did not assert him- 


t 




218 


PROUD LADY 


self in the least nor stress the relationship; he treated 
them not like children, but with the courteous interest 
due to new acquaintance, without familiarity. The two 
elder boys rather hung back from him; but John had 
at once been friendly; they were all in some way im¬ 
pressed by him. 

It was dark, the lamps had been lighted, when Lau¬ 
rence came. Lavery was strolling about the lawn and 
met him; and they came upstairs together and went into 
Laurence's room, laughing. Mary waited impatiently 
till finally Lavery went to dress; then she knocked at 
Laurence’s door and entered. He was in his dressing- 
room, splashing vigorously, and answered with surprise 
when she spoke to him. In a moment he came out, 
wrapped in a loose robe, his thick black hair and beard 
wet and rough. 

“Laurence, something strange has happened. Some 
one is here—you haven’t heard?—your father has come.” 

A look of apprehension on his face quickly gave place 
to astonishment as she ended. 

“My father! . . . What the deuce!” 

He looked dismayed; then as she went on to describe 
the new arrival, incredulous. 

“I don’t believe it’s my father. He wouldn’t turn 
up like this after twenty-five years without a word! . . . 
I’ve thought for a long time he was dead.” 

“Well, he isn’t—it’s your father, sure enough.” 

Laurence, with a blank look, towelled his head and 
neck. 

“Jesus Christ!” he ejaculated. 

He went and stared into the mirror, rubbing his hair 
till it stood up wildly all over his head. There were 




PROUD LADY 


219 


threads of grey all through it, but the beard that 
covered his mouth and was cut square below his chin 
was intensely black, and so were his arched brows, be¬ 
neath which the narrow eyes showed still their vivid 
blue. His broad shoulders, the joining of the massive 
neck, were strong, unbowed. 

“What did you do with him?” he asked abruptly. 

“Put him in the best bedroom and gave him your 
special whiskey,” said Mary. 

“The deuce you did! . . . Killed the fatted calf, 
eh? . . . Well, where is he now?” 

“He went to walk with John—John took a great 
fancy to him.” 

“He did?” Laurence’s face changed subtly, relaxed. 
“Well, that’s something. . . . But, say—it’s awkward 
about Lavery being here. I wish I’d known.” 

“I might have telegraphed, but I didn’t know where 
you were,” said Mary. 

“You can always reach me at the hotel,” he said 
sharply. 

She moved toward the door. 

“I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn’t here,” he mut¬ 
tered. 

“I -wouldn’t care about that.” There was an edge 
in Mary’s tone, but with an effort she eliminated that 
touch of criticism. “Your father can take care of him¬ 
self—he’s quite as much a gentleman as Lavery.” 

“No, is he really?” 

Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, 
and gazed at her. 

“He’s presentable, really? ... I shouldn’t have 
expected it.” 




220 


PROUD LADY 


“He isn’t very well dressed,” said Mary quietly. 
“But you needn’t be at all ashamed of him. He’s— 
there’s something about him—well, I can’t describe it, 
but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery. ” 

“Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for 
poor old Horace,” said Laurence, turning back again to 
the mirror and brushing vigorously. “I’ll be down in 
ten minutes—but I’d rather see him alone first, you 
know. Do you suppose he’s come back?” 

“I’ll see.” 

In the mirror Laurence’s eyes dwelt on her tall 
figure and white face shadowy in the background. He 
said slowly with an undertone of pain: 

“You look very beautiful tonight.” 




IV 


W HERE Laurence sat was the head of the 
table; he dominated all by his vivid colour, 
his intense physical vitality, and he kept the 
talk going easily. He and Lavery were in evening 
dress, rather dandified, with soft plaited shirt-bosoms 
and diamond studs. Old Mr. Carlin, sitting between 
Timothy and John, appeared perfectly at ease in his 
well-brushed suit. His bright grey eyes contemplated 
the scene and the company with an aloof and philo¬ 
sophic interest. 

Mary, in her usual dress for the evening, of plain 
black velvet, cut square at the neck, and with long close- 
fitting sleeves, was beautiful, as Laurence had said and 
Lavery ? s long gaze recognized. She wore no ornaments 
except a pair of heavy earrings of dull gold filagree. 
The light from the big cut-glass chandelier over the 
table fell unshaded upon her, bringing out the pale 
copper colour of her rippling hair and the whiteness 
of her skin. It emphasized too the hollows in her 
cheeks and at her temples, the lines of the forehead 
and of the neck below the ear. Her face, as in her 
youth, was like a mask; but now it was a mask of 
sorrow. Calm and unmoved in expression, it was yet an 
abstract of sad experience. 

The years had left a more complex mark on Laurence. 
There were deeper furrows in his brow and running 

down from the nostrils to bury themselves in his black 

221 


222 


PROUD LADY 


beard. A passionate expressiveness, a restless irritabil¬ 
ity, spoke in his voice, his gestures, his constant flow 
of talk. “Carlin’s temper” was a proverb by now. 
A racial inheritance came out strongly in him. He was 
“the black Irish”; dangerous at times. But there 
was another side to this temperament. Often when he 
smiled, and always when he looked at the boy who sat 
beside him, there was a deep sweetness in his eyes, a 
deep tenderness. John’s place was always beside his 
father; he hung on Laurence’s words and looks with 
hushed eagerness. And Laurence, keenly conscious of 
the sensitive boy, was careful what he said, instinctively 
suppressed anything that might shock or hurt a young 
idealistic spirit; and never drank more than a glass or 
two of wine, in his presence. 

The wine was always on the dinner-table, however. It 
was Laurence’s idea that the boys had better get used 
to seeing it, and to taking a little now and then. Mary 
never touched it, and hated the sight of it; but she had 
long since ceased to oppose Laurence in any detail of 
life. The house was managed as he wished, though he 
was away more than half the time. Now there were 
three kinds of wine on the table—sherry, claret and 
port. Laurence was proud of his wine-cellar, down 
in the deep foundations of the house. 

Lavery drank delicately. He had guided Laurence’s 
choice of the claret, and confined himself to that. He 
much preferred to remain perfectly sober; especially 
when other people were drunk; but in any case he 
disliked the least blurring of the fine edge of sensation 
and perception. He liked to watch the play of human 
feeling, and to guess what was going on below the 




PROUD LADY 


223 


surface; and for this one must be alert and cool. He 
was immensely curious, for example, about the human 
situation under bis eyes. Old Mr. Carlin had suddenly 
come in for a share of this interest. Lavery studied 
him across the table, and addressed frequent remarks to 
him, with amenity. He discovered that the old man, 
in point of quick wit, suavity and coolness, was by no 
means his inferior, although the elder had, from the 
beginning of the dinner, applied very steadily to each 
decanter in turn. 

After the coffee Mary rose, as was her custom, leaving 
the men at the table. The three boys followed her; 
Jim with evident reluctance. His manly dignity was 
hurt at being classed with women and children; but he 
was quite aware that his company would not be longer 
desired in the room, where heavy drinking and free 
talk were apt to be the order of the evening. Lavery 
sprang up to open the door for Mary, and she passed 
out with a slight bow, the boys waiting till the edge 
of her long velvet train had ebbed over the threshold. 

Timothy and John went upstairs to the billiard-room 
on the top floor; and Mary, slipping her hand through 
Jim’s arm, led him into the parlour where the piano 
stood. She wanted to ask him about his excursion of 
the night before—he had been out till three o’clock— 
but more than that she wanted him to stay with her 
a little while. But Jim was restive, wouldn’t sit down. 
He feared an inquisition, and also he wanted to get 
away to the stable and smoke. Mary, both irritated 
and hurt by his unwillingness, spoke more sharply 
than she had intended. 





224 


PROUD LADY 


‘ i Wliere were you all last night ? ’ ’ 

“I went out for a long ride,” said Jim sulkily. 

“And were you riding from eight o’clock till three?” 

“No—I stopped a while to see a friend.” 

“What friend?” 

“Oh, somebody you don’t know—a fellow.” 

Controlling himself, he answered more gently; his 
dark eyes met hers imperturbably. 

“Well, you oughtn’t to stay out all night!” 

“I didn’t,” said Jim reasonably. “And a fellow 
has to do something in this dead place.” 

“You shouldn’t have taken your father’s horse either, 
without permission.” 

“Why, Mother, he was simply spoiling for exercise— 
you know he doesn’t get ridden half enough.” 

“I don’t like you to ride him, he’s dangerous—” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I can manage him, all right, don’t you worry! ’ ’ 
Jim smiled cheerfully. “But I’ve got to run out now 
and see to the pony—he’s a bit lame still—” 

She let him go, turning away from him and walking 
to the end of the long room. Yes, he wanted to escape 
—he had his own life now, was beginning to be a man 
and to take his secret way, like the rest of them. Her 
mouth curved bitterly. She did not believe Jim, about 
the friend—she suspected something else, and she re¬ 
coiled jealously, miserably. ... Yes, her son too—he 
was like the rest. . . . 

She stood by the open window, looking out blindly 
on the garden. The night was mild, it was moonlight, 
greenish, like a glowworm’s light. The long lace 
curtains waved inward in the soft breeze. There were 
sounds of life astir all about. She heard a burst of 





PROUD LADY 


225 


laughter from the dining-room; then the faint click of 
the billiard-balls and a shout from Timothy. Then, 
on the lake, some one began to sing Schubert’s boat- 
song. A clear soprano trilled out joyously the song 
of love and youth. . . . 

A piercing sense of loneliness, of life passing by 
her, leaving her, stabbed to her very heart. She gave 
a long, shuddering sigh. . . . Youth, love—they had 
passed by. Like the song growing fainter, receding into 
distance. And the bitter thing was, one did not realize 
them till they were gone. The sweetness of life—all 
it was, might have been—one did not feel it till it had 
slipped away. . . . Gone, lost—then, in loneliness you 
felt it. . . . 

Some one came into the room. She turned, and at 
sight of her face, Lavery’s gay apology dropped half- 
spoken. He came and stood beside her at the window. 

“I hate music,” she said abruptly. “Some one was 
singing out there. It makes one sad. ... It makes one 
remember all the things—” 

“I don’t like it myself,” said Lavery, when she 
stopped as abruptly. “Unless it’s an opera—with 
gay dresses, lights, all that—then it distracts you.” 

“That’s trying to shut it out, the sadness of life. 
Like making merry in a room, shut in, with a storm 
outside. ’ ’ 

“Well, you know, that’s the sensible thing to do. 
You have to shut it out.” 

“But supposing you can’t?” 

He met the misery of her eyes, her voice, with a 
gravity that he seldom showed to any one. 

“We all have to go through that phase,” he said 




h 


PROUD LADY 


226 

curtly. “A kind of despair. It comes—and passes, 
generally. ’ ’ 

“Does it? Does it pass?” 

“I think it does. . . .You see, it’s natural. It comes 
to us at the end of youth—it’s the end of some things— 
then we have to take stock, see what we’ve spent, what 
we’ve got left to go on with—” 

“And supposing we’ve spent everything?’’ 

’“'W'ell, that isn’t likely—though it may look so. 
Most of us go through a kind of bankruptcy. The 
hopes and ambitions of youth are gone—our dreams 
are gone, as a rule. We face what we’ve actually done, 
what we’re really capable of—it doesn’t correspond 
to what we believed we could do, what we thought we 
were. The reality is hard, and we despair. . . . But 
then, we get our second wind, so to speak, and go on, 
somehow. ’ ’ 

“Do we? But why? Why go on—” 

“Well, most of us by that time have certain ties, 
responsibilities, we’re necessary, or think we are—” 

“But if we don’t think we are? If we’re not 
needed?” 

Her lips quivered, her tone was hard and desper¬ 
ate. 

“Well, then—there may be some w T ork we’re in¬ 
terested in. Or if not that, there’s a good deal of 
pleasure to be got out of life, you know, if one under¬ 
stands how to do it.” 

‘ ‘ Pleasure ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, surely. . . . Youth doesn’t appreciate the good 
things of life, it’s too eager, to intent on its own 
purposes. . . . The real pleasures of the mind and the 






PROUD LADY 


227 


senses come later—they’re the consolation for what we 
were speaking of.” 

“No, no! That’s no consolation! It’s impossible 
to live that way!” 

“You want to keep your youth,” he said. “I think 
you ’re suffering from youth unlived. ’ ’ 

“Youth unlived!” she repeated, in a low voice. “I 
didn’t have it ... it went by me somehow—” 

“Yes, and now you want it.” 

‘ ‘ I don’t want anything ! ’ ’ 

“That’s what we say when we can’t get what we 
want,” observed Lavery. “But then, we take what 
we can get.” 

“No, I hate that!” she burst out. “That resignation, 
creeping into old age! No, I can’t live that way. 
That’s being beaten! ’ ’ 

“Well, most of us are beaten,” Lavery said 
philosophically, showing his brilliant teeth in a smile. 
“But then, as I said, there are consolations—” 

“No, there’s no consolation for that.” 

She moved, sat down on one of the long sofas, looking 
straight before her with a fixed absent gaze. Lavery 
dropped into a chair beside her, contemplative, admiring. 

Emotion was becoming to her. It called a faint 
colour to her cheeks and lips, gave light to her still 
grey eyes. In some ways she looked strangely young. 
The lines of her figure were wonderfully girlish. . . . 
But also she looked as though she had lived . . . not 
happily, though. He judged a sympathetic silence 
best at the moment, though there were a lot of things 
he wanted to say. He would have liked to preach his 
own gospel of enjoyment, he thought he could be rather 




228 


PROUD LADY 


eloquent on that theme. But still more he wanyted 
her to talk, so he was quiet, glancing now and then 
about the big room, whose furniture had too much gilt 
to suit him. His own taste ran to very quiet though 
rich effects, and he thought the house “rococo” an.1 
out of date. Still, in a way, the gilding and light 
stuffs and long mirrors made a good setting for her tall 
figure in its sombre dress and her tragic face. . . . She 
sat there, looking into space, apparently forgetting 
that a pleasant confidant was at her elbow. She hadn’t 
a touch of the ordinary agreeable coquetry, he reflected 
—didn’t seem to realize that people of their age could 
still be agreeable to one another. Rather barbarous . . . 
yes, both Carlin and his wife were a little uncivilized. 
They would fit better into a former, doubtless more 
heroic age, than into the present time. There was a 
slightly rough-hewn pioneer quality about them. But, 
perhaps from that very thing, they were both interest¬ 
ing, decidedly so. And he could wait indefinitely for 
the interest to develop. His calm pulses never hurried 
now for anything. 

His thought reverted to Laurence and to the old 
gentleman whom he had left drinking whiskey. A 
queer fish, Laurence’s father—he had never known 
Laurence had a father. A black sheep probably. 
Laurence was plainly nervous about him. It was the 
tactful thing to leave them together—even if there 
hadn’t been Mrs. Carlin alone in here, needing some¬ 
body to talk to. Laurence neglected her, that was 
quite evident, and she felt it bitterly. ... He wondered, 
with narrowed gaze, how much she knew about 
Laurence’s life. He could tell her a good deal more 
than she knew, probably—but, naturally, he wouldn’t. 




V 


T HE constraint that Laurence had felt from the 
moment of meeting his long lost parent—for 
their parting rose up before him, the memory 
of a blow—had vanished. The old man had brushed 
it away, as soon as they were alone, by a quiet net 
statement. 

“You mustn’t think, Laurence, that I’ve come back 
to fasten m 3 r self on you. I shall stay here only a day 
or so. I have my own life, and I don’t need anything 
from you.” 

“That isn’t what I was thinking of—” 

“I know, but this is what I want to say, it would be 
ridiculous for me to act as if I had any claim on you, 
after everything. I don’t feel any, don’t expect any¬ 
thing. Naturally you couldn’t have any affection for 
me, I wouldn’t have any place here, even if I wanted 
it. And I don’t need any money. I just wanted you to 
understand it.” 

“Of course you have a claim—” 

“No, no, I gave all that up a long time ago, cut off 
that sort of thing, by my own will, you know. I wasn’t 
made for family life. Couldn’t stand it. . . . Of course 
I know you have a grudge against me, and quite right. 
I didn’t do my duty by my family, that’s a fact. 
Should never have had a family.” 

They were sitting before a fire in the library. The 

229 


230 


PROUD LADY 


old man had refused the cigar Laurence offered, and 
was smoking a short black pipe. 

“I suppose we all feel that way at times/’ said 
Laurence moodily. 

“Yes, but most struggle along with it. I did, for 
a good many years, not very well, though. It was 
against the grain. I got caught in the wheel of things, 
it was grinding me to pieces.” 

“The wheel of things,” Laurence repeated absently. 

“Yes, and of course through a woman. They get us 
into it. Your mother was a good woman, I’ve nothing 
to say against her. I fell in love with her, that wasn’t 
her fault, nor mine either. . . . But ’twas she led me 
to the priest, and then over to this country. She was 
of better family than me, you see, her father was a 
squire; and she had a great ambition to get on in the 
world and be genteel. When she saw I couldn’t do it, 
she got bitter to me. Oh, it was all natural, she wanted 
her children to be well off, educated. You can remem¬ 
ber how we lived, nobody could blame your mother, I 
didn’t myself, but she made it hell to me. I wanted to 
be my own master and have time to think. ... So I 
cut loose from it.” 

Laurence nodded brusquely, but frowned, gazing at 
the neat, gentle-voiced old man. 

“ ’Twas wrong, of course,” old Timothy went on 
reflectively. “From the usual point of view. But 
I can’t say I’m sorry I did it. I’ve had time to look 
about me and to learn some things. I always had 
a thirst for learning—books and ideas—” 

“Yes, no doubt! But perhaps you don’t know how 
my mother lived!” said Laurence bitingly. 




PROUD LADY 


231 


“I couldn’t have bettered it,” the old man replied 
tranquilly. “I couldn’t really, Laurence. The drink 
had got hold of me, I’d have gone from bad to worse. 1 
couldn’t help it . . . ’twas because my life was miser¬ 
able, I was only a dumb brute, like an ox, just living to 
work, feed and sleep. ’Twas no life for a man.” 

‘‘It wasn’t a life for my mother, either, was it?” 

“No, but women can stand it better than we can, they 
don’t like it but it doesn’t kill their souls. ... I’d have 
drunk myself to death in a few years. ’Tis they get us 
into it anyway—they’re bound to the wheel, and they 
draw us in. They think of food and clothing and being 
respectable. A man has got other things to think of— 
he can’t spend his life feeding a lot of hungry mouths. 
. . . Nine we had, but they mostly died when babies, the 
better for them.” 

The old man leaned forward to shake the ashes out of 
his pipe, and smiling, he added: 

“Of course I don’t expect you to think anything but 
ill of me. You always took your mother’s part, and ’twas 
right. . . . And now you’ve got a family of your own 
and done well by them, and you’ve got up in the world 
—you’ll feel accordingly and look down on me, 
naturally. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I don’t look down—! ’ ’ 

“Oh, maybe not because of the money and the fine 
house, I don’t mean that. But you’re in the big 
machine, I’m not. You’re a success, I’ve been a failure, 
from a social point of view—” 

“Success?” said Laurence. 

Sunk deep in the big armchair, his head bent forward, 
he stared at the fire from under his bent brows. 




232 


PROUD LADY 


“Surely. You’re a big man here, Laurence, I found 
out—you’ve made a fine name for yourself. You’ve 
got wealth too, a real lady and a beautiful one for a 
wife, three fine boys—and this house you live in, why, 
it’s a palace.” 

There was a faint veiled irony in the old man’s 
voice. 

“Your mother would have been proud to see you, 
Laurence. ’ ’ 

“But you’re not, eh?” Laurence smiled aggressively. 
“You’ve got something else in your mind.” 

“Well—yes ... I don’t care much for all this. I 
find a man needs very little to live, and all the rest is 
waste, so I think.” 

“You’ve become a philosopher,” growled Laurence. 

“Yes,” the old man chuckled. “Long ago I took to 
the road. Since then I’ve never owned anything nor had 
any care for the morrow. I travel like the birds and 
pick up my living as I go. ” 

i 

Laurence made no comment but continued to gaze 
into the fire, sunk deep in reverie. He looked very 
tired; his whole big frame relaxed, his eyelids drooped. 

But he was thinking—or rather, whole scenes from 
the past were flashing by him, things long forgotten, 
it seemed. . . . After a rather long silence he said 
dreamily: 

“You know Pat was killed at Shiloh, I suppose?” 

‘ ‘ I heard he was killed, yes—that is, I didn’t know it 
till I got back here. ’ ’ 

“And you didn’t know my mother was dead, either— 
or what had become of me ? ” 




PROUD LADY 


233 


“No, Larry, no—how could I?” 

The old man filled his pipe again from a bag of 
tobacco that he carried in his pocket. 

“Well, you are an old bird,” said Laurence sardoni¬ 
cally. 

“Family isn’t the only thing,” was old Timothy’s 
calm response. “ ’Tisn’t even the main thing.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, wdiat is, in your opinion ? ’ ’ 

“Why, a man’s work—his ideas.” 

* ‘ Work ? I thought you didn’t work. ’ ’ 

“I don’t work for a boss, or for a society that only 
wants to exploit me, and I haven’t these many years. 
I’ve gone hungry rather, lived with the lowest and off 
them too, rather than that. Once I got out of that hell, 
I wouldn’t go back into it, sooner starve. . . . But I 
work for what I’m interested in.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“The big change that’s coming, Larry. The day when 
there’ll be real freedom for every man.” 

The old man paused, then said abruptly: 

“You’re your mother’s son. It’s her blood in you 
that’s made you go the way you have. . . . On my side 
we go another way. Far back my people were all rebels. 
Hardly a man of ’em died in their beds. . . . There’s a 
bigger war coming in this country, Laurence, than 
the one you fought in. There you were on the right 
side of the fence, but now you’re not—you’ve gone 
over. ’ ’ 

“Gone over? Gone over to what?” 

“To the rich, to the capitalists, to the whole rotten 
system. You’re a pillar of it now.” 

Laurence opened his eyes, looked interested. 




234 


PROUD LADY 


“Do you think so, Dad?” he enquired, using for the 
first time the familiar address of long ago. 

‘ ‘ Sure I think so! ” 

A pugnacious spark lit the old man’s eye, his philo¬ 
sophic calm wavered. 

“I’d been better pleased, Larry, if you’d stuck by 
your own class. It’s men like you we need—you could 
have been a leader! But it’s the old story, so soon as a 
man of ours shows the ability, the other side gets him—he 
goes after the fleshpots, and he’s lost to us! ” 

‘ ‘ There are no classes in this country, you ’re thinking 
of the old world, Dad, ’ ’ said Laurence tolerantly. 

“There’s always two classes—them that have and 
them that want! ’ ’ declared the old man curtly. 

“You’re for a class-war, then?” 

“I’m for it! . . . Not for myself, thank God the day’s 
long past, if it ever was, when I wanted anything for 
myself. But I belong to the Knights of Labour and I’ve 
travelled the country over, helping to organize here and 
there. I see the big fight coming. This country’s 
changed. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. The 
big fortunes are piling up. You’ll see . . . you’ll see.” 

“You’re a true Irishman, Dad, always spoiling for a 
fight—always against the powers that be.” 

“And you come of the same stock, but you’ve gone 
back on it! [Maybe you’ve sold yourself to the powers 
that be! ” 

“No,” said Laurence coolly. “No man can say that 
of me. Look over my record, if you like to take the 
trouble. Ask what my reputation is. . . . You’ll find 
I’ve stood for the poor and oppressed as much as you, 




PROUD LADY 


235 


or maybe more—I’ve fought many a poor man’s case 
against a rich corporation, and won it too. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Then how did you get all this ? ’ ’ 

The old man waved his hand, clasping the stubby 
black pipe, and fixed a shrewd sparkling glance on his 
son. 

Laurence laughed abruptly. 

“Partly by inheritance, by investments, speculation 
sometimes, not by bribery or corruption! . . . But it 
seeems rather funny to me that you should drop down on 
me this way, all of a sudden, and accuse me! Yes, by 
George, it’s funny! Life is certainly amusing, at 
times. ’ ’ 

“You mean I haven’t any right to call you to ac¬ 
count,” said the old man placidly. “But I don’t do it 
because you’re my son—but because you’re a strong 
man that was born of us and ought to have stayed 
with us.” 

“Us? You mean I ought to have been a day- 
labourer? . . . You’re a fanatic, Dad. ... If you were 
so anxious to have me go the right way, why didn’t you 
stay and train me up?” 

“It was weakness, I know, but, as I told you, I 
couldn’t stand your mother, God rest her soul. . . . 
But of course I didn’t see as much then as I do now. 
I’ve picked up some education, I’ve studied Marx and 
the Internationalists. ...” 

“And you’re for revolution. I see. But it won’t 
come, not in this country, not anyway in your lifetime or 
mine, and then only slowly, by degrees. . . . Oh, I’ve 
looked into those things as well as you. Social questions 




236 


PROUD LADY 


interest me. I see the battle of opposing forces, and 
I’m on your side too, on the side of the advance, as I 
see it. But —it won’t come by a sudden blow—not here. 
Little by little, as a man’s frame changes. This coun¬ 
try’s built on the English model, little as you may like 
it, slow to change but yet changing. . . . And that’s 
where I come in. Don’t you see the cause needs a 
friend at court? You can batter away on the outside 
as much as you like, but you need somebody inside!” 

“Maybe. . . . That wasn’t what made you want to 
get inside, though, was it, Larry?” said the old man 
cynically. 

“Oh, I don’t know. ... I don’t know why I wanted 
to.” 

Laurence stood up, stretching his arms with a look 
of nervous fatigue. 

“I promised the boys a game of billiards—come on 
up, will you ? ’ ’ 

“All right, all right.” 

Laurence stood a moment with his back to the fire, 
looking about the room. Its length on two sides was 
filled nearly to the ceiling with books. There was Judge 
Baxter’s private library in its stately bindings, and 
many of his law-books, huge bound volumes of reports, 
“commonplace” books filled with his neat crabbed writ¬ 
ing, ponderous commentaries in calf. Laurence had 
done a good deal of work in this room. . . . 

‘ ‘ I wanted to count for something, ’ ’ he said absently. 
“Who doesn’t?” 

“Yes, but for what—that’s the point! What’s all 
this good for, that you’ve got ? Loot! ’ ’ 

“I wanted,” said Laurence, deep in his own thoughts 




PROUD LADY 


237 


and oblivious of this condemnation, “I wanted—human 
happiness, more than anything 1 . For myself, yes—and 
for other people. ... I wanted life to be more interest¬ 
ing, richer than it was, with more pleasure in it. . . . 
Why not? Why can’t it be? ... I tried, here in this 
town— ’ ’ 

“Oh, I know!” broke in the old man impatiently. 
“Public improvements and all that. Suppose they have 
got cement sidewalks and lots of trees ? Suppose ye did 
give ’em a library? I know they say you’ve done a lot 
for the town . . . but you want to be a big man, the 
patron, the boss, and give it to ’em out of charity! 
That’s the same old story, it doesn’t interest me. Give 
the people justice, they won’t want charity!” 

“Justice!” murmured Laurence with an abstracted 
smile. 

“Well, their rights, then, if you like it better. I don’t 
mean the kind of justice that you deal them out, sitting 
up on your high seat! ’ ’ 

“I deal them out the best I can find,” said Laurence 
gently. ‘ ‘ The law gets re-made rather slowly, you know. 

. . . But I’ll admit to you that I don’t sleep well, 
the night after I’ve sentenced a man.” 

“I never thought to see that—you, Larry Carlin, 
sentencing people to prison ! ’ ’ 

“No, I don’t sleep well,” said Laurence vaguely. 

He rubbed his hand over his eyes and shrugged his 
shoulders with a look of weariness. 

“Well, shall we go up?” he said shortly. “I’m 
mighty sorry, though, that you don’t approve of me.” 

“Yes, yes, I understand!” 

The old man laughed, and suddenly resumed his for- 




238 


PROUD LADY 


mer manner, his placidity, with an ease that indicated 
long practice in adapting himself to shifting scenes 
and moods. 

“You’re not responsible to me, God knows. ... To 
each his own life, and I’m not to be the judge of 
yonrs! . . . Anyhow, Larry, ’ ’ he added as they went 
toward the door, “you got what you wanted.” 

“Oh, yes—yes, I got it,—in many ways.” 

“And now you’ve got it—you wouldn’t say now, as 
many do, that it’s vanity and vexation of spirit ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, of course!” Laurence laughed abruptly. 
“Still, when you go after a thing it’s better to get 
it. . . . Then you can see what it’s worth.” 




VI 


T HE billiard-room, on a suggestion from the archi¬ 
tect, taken up with amusement by Laurence, had 
been made to resemble a European cafe. It had 
a low ceiling, red-plush benches round the panelled 
walls, long mirrors, and small tables in the corners; 
there was even a miniature bar. 

Laurence, with his coat off, moved quickly round 
the green table, leaning half-way across it sometimes to 
make a difficult shot, managing his cue deftly and surely. 
The two younger boys followed his motions eagerly. 
John, who was playing his first real game, had a flush 
of excitement in his cheeks; his big blue eyes shone, he 
bit his lips nervously and his hands trembled; he 
laughed gaily when he made an awkward play. Tim¬ 
othy hung at his elbow, jeering and waiting anxiously 
for his turn. In the doorway lounged Jim maintaining 
a slightly supercilious attitude. Mary and Lavery were 
sitting on one of the plush benches; and the senior 
Carlin, standing at a little distance, contemplated the 
group round the table with interest. The men were 
smoking, the air was a little hazy. With the bright 
lights reflected in the mirrors, the click of the balls, 
quick movements and laughing comments of the players, 
the others watching, all seemed drawn together for the 
moment in an atmosphere of pleasure. 

Laurence’s face had brightened, his eyes smiled. 

When John had made his last play, a terrible fumble, 

239 


240 


PROUD LADY 


and thrown down his cue angrily, he put his arm round 
the boy’s shoulders and shook him with tender roughness. 

“Be a good sport! You’ve got to lose before you 
win, you young monkey!” 

John frowned, stamped his feet, and wrenched away, 
yet his eyes too smiled, and he hurried to fetch the 
chalk demanded by Timothy. Then when Timothy 
blundered John murmured a consoling word, little at¬ 
tended to, and when Timothy made a good stroke he 
applauded vigorously. Now and then he glanced 
happily at his mother, watching for her smile, or spoke 
to Jim, wdio only dropped his eyelids in answer; or 
went and stood beside his grandfather for a moment. 
He showed a quick consciousness of every one in the 
room, as though with infinitely delicate feelers touching 
them all. His physical motion^ were awkward, with the 
rapid growth of adolescence his arms and legs were 
somewhat out of control. He jostled Timothy at a criti¬ 
cal point and received an impatient rebuff. Dashed by 
this, he stood apart for a while; and his face had its 
wistful, listening look, as if he sought among them 
all the human echo of some harmony heard far off. 

After Timothy, it was Jim’s turn. Jim had some 
pretensions to skill, but bore a smashing defeat with 
good grace, and complimented his father in an off-hand 
manly fashion, on which they shook hands with a 
cordiality rare between them. Jim as a rule irritated 
Laurence, either by obvious faults, laziness or extrava¬ 
gance, or else by silence and lack of response, a standing 
difference of temperament. But tonight Laurence 
looked at him affectionately, noting with pleasure his 




PROUD LADY 


241 


dark good looks, his lithe youth. Jim was almost a man 
—next year he would be going to college, if he could man¬ 
age to pass the examinations. ... So time passes. . . . 

Laurence was aware of a dark whirl of thoughts, 
half-formed, somewhere at the back of his mind; and of 
a weight pressing on the nape of his neck. For some 
time he had slept little and had been conscious of an 
increasing fatigue, something that piled up day by day, 
and made increasing effort necessary to get through 
each day’s activity. He would have to work tonight. 
Downstairs he had the papers of an important case 
in which he had reserved decision. . . . And then there 
were a lot of business matters to be gone over with 
Lavery. . . . 

But he was reluctant to leave this bright room, to 
break up the family gathering. It was rare that they 
were all together like this; Mary very seldom came up 
to the billiard-room. The occasion seemed to him sig¬ 
nificant, and searching for the reason, he wondered 
if his father’s strange presence had anything to do with 
it, or with his own unusual mood. Perhaps so. Per¬ 
haps it was this that had, as it seemed, thrown him 
back into the past, had curiously removed him to a 
distance so that this present scene had a kind of un¬ 
reality. ... It was like a scene on the stage which 
he was watching as it were through a reversed glass, 
so that the figures of the actors, his own included, 
appeared very tiny and as if at an immense distance. 
He watched himself going through the motions of the 
game, talking, laughing, and the others moving about. 
It seemed that some drama was moving to an obscure 




242 


PROUD LADY 


but deeply significant climax, but what was it all about ? 

At times he came to the surface of consciousness with 
what seemed like a crash, the lights and sounds smote 
his senses as if magnified, the actors became life-size or 
even bigger, and he waited for them or for himself to 
say or do some unheard-of thing. . . . All through he 
was conscious of an effort ini himself to appear as usual, 
not to do anything extraordinary, not to lose touch with 
these human beings round him, all of whom seemed 
invested with some strange charm, newly felt, as though 
a hidden beauty in them had suddenly come into 
view. . . . 

At one moment he wondered if he were ill, or going 
to be; and put his hand on the back of his neck, where 
the dull pain pressed heavily. From across the room 
he saw John’s eyes fixed on him earnestly; and smiled 
at him. The shadow of trouble in another person 
would trouble John. Strange boy! He was like a harp 
so delicately strung that a breath of air would stir it. 
What would happen to him in this world of harsh and 
jarring contacts? . . . The other two, he thought, would 
shoulder their way through well enough. They were 
strong normal boys with a good supply of egotism. 
The stock was sound. . . . 

He realized that he was looking at them all as though 
on the eve of departure, a farewell before a long jour¬ 
ney. . . . The room swam in a dazzle of light. With 
an immense effort he pulled himself together, van¬ 
quished the momentary faintness, gave no other sign 
than a pallor, a rapid blinking of his eyes. . . . 

He found himself standing beside his father, before 
one of the long mirrors, and replying to some remark 




PROUD LADY 


243 


half-heard. His vision cleared, he looked at the two 
figures in the glass, curiously. Would any one have 
taken those two for father and son ? 

No. In the first place, the elder looked absurdly 
young, with his smooth-shaven unwrinkled face and 
wiry figure. And then, he looked like a foreigner; the 
Irish was unmistakable. Old Timothy had never taken 
root in American soil, but floated like thistledown above 
it, for forty years. . . . And the other one there, the 
black-bearded one—with age the Irish came out in him 
too, unmistakably. . . . But he was an American, born 
here, with no dim shadow of allegiance elsewhere. A 
son of the soil, he had fought for its nationality—there 
was the sign, the old sabre-cut, a faint white line across 
his cheek. And those old American ideals, of liberty, 
equality—he had believed in them passionately, felt 
them a living current in his blood, would have given his 
life for them. He still believed in them—and surely 
nothing in his life had given the lie to that belief? 

The old man there had questioned, doubted him, on 
the score of this material luxury, this big house he had 
built—which, for that matter, was as unsubstantial as 
a soap-bubble, he could almost feel it dissolving under 
him. . . .Why, that only proved the equality of op¬ 
portunity here for every man, he had started empty- 
handed. Here in this country the stream of fortune 
ran swift, capricious. . . . Men -were all like gold- 
washers on the banks of a river, today the current would 
wash the golden grains one way, tomorrow another. . . . 
Why, tomorrow this bubble of a house that he had 
amused himself blowing into shape, might vanish, and 
he be left empty-handed. . . . What matter? It was 




244 


PROUD LADY 


all unreal, anyway, all a dream, what he had tried to 
build. . . . 

It seemed to him that he had been saying some of 
these things to his father, but he was not sure, there 
was a humming sound in his ears. . . . Again there was 
a flash of clear sight. John was there beside him, now 
there were three figures reflected in the mirror. 

“Three generations!” said Laurence. 

He spoke in his natural tone, the haggard pallor of 
his face changed suddenly; he felt that John had 
noticed it, was watching him. 

“Look, Father, can you see any likeness among us 
three?” he asked. 

The boy stood between them, straight as a young 
sapling, the radiance of his blond head like a beam of 
sunlight, a bow of promise across a cloud. 

“No—no,” said the old man thoughtfully. “I see 
it now in you and me, Larry—there’s the same blood. 
But I don’t see it in the boy. ’ ’ 

“John isn’t like any of us, anyhow,” said Laurence, 
with the tender tones that he always had for this child. 
“He makes us look like a couple of scarred old logs, 
doesn’t he?” 

“Ah, youth—that’s the pure gold,” said the old man 
softly. 

The boy smiled, deprecating, shrinking a little from 
their gentle scrutiny. 

“It isn’t that alone, there’s something else, that’s 
unaccountable,” Laurence pondered, as if speaking to 
himself. 

“ It’s the mother, perhaps—he’s more like her. That’s 
a different strain,” said the old man. 





PROUD LADY 


245 


. . . . - —— — .- ■ i 

Laurence turned and looked across the room. Mary 
had risen, was still talking to Lavery, but she was look¬ 
ing straight at them, at the group before the mir¬ 
ror. 

“Mary, come here a minute,” called Laurence. 

She came, with her slow stately step, and Laurence put 
out his hand and drew her to his side. 

“What is it?” she asked, with a faint tremulousness 
in her voice. 

The old man, standing a step apart, and looking at 
the other three, replied. 

“We were thinking of the likeness. . . . Yes, it’s 
more on your side—yet I don’t know—” 

“Mary and I are different enough, eh?” said Laurence 
with a slight laugh. “That might account for almost 
anything. She’s pure English, you see—English 
Puritan. ... It was two enemy races mating when 
we married, eh, Father?” 

“That makes the American, maybe,” said the old 
man, still curiously intent on the boy. 

But John, embarrassed by this prolonged attention, 
now broke away and left them. 

“He’s not like either of us,” said Laurence abruptly, 
watching the boy’s retreating figure. “That is, only 
a little. He’s like a flower, sprung from heaven knows 
where.” 

Glancing again at the mirror he saw the quick re¬ 
sponse in Mary’s face. In the mirror their eyes met 
with a deep flash of sympathy. Yes, this was some¬ 
thing they both felt deeply and in common—the strange 
beauty of this child who had, nevertheless, sprung from 
them, from their two lives, however marred and 




246 


PROUD LADY 


futile. . . . Their union had at least produced this thing 
of beauty. . . . 

They looked at one another with a deep sad gaze. 
Laurence, with a sharpened vision, saw something in 
Mary’s face new to him. The physical change must 
have come slowly—Mary had not been ill for a long 
time, that sharpening of the contours that gave her 
beauty its new delicacy was perhaps only age. But 
what he saw was not physical. He saw suddenly that 
she was grieving, suffering, he did not know why; it 
gave him a quick throb of pain. He would have put his 
arm around her, but that she moved away sharply. At 
the same moment he felt again the clouding of his sight, 
the dizziness. . . . But, abruptly alleging that he must 
get to work, he was able to leave the room with only a 
slight unsteadiness of gait, which, he knew, might easily 
be attributed to another cause. 




VII 


M ARY watched him go; and thought exactly what 
he had guessed she would. She said it was 
time for the boys to go to bed. They all went 
downstairs. In her own room she lit her reading-lamp, 
but instead of undressing she stood for a time looking 
out the window onj the lake. Then, when the house was 
quiet, she turned slowly, reluctantly, to her door, and 
stopping more than once she descended to the ground 
floor. The hall was dimly lit. The library door was 
shut; she heard the rustle of papers and the thud of 
a book falling. She opened the door noiselessly. There 
was Laurence, with a wet towel round his head, work¬ 
ing at his desk. . . . And there was Lavery, in a deep 
chair beside him, looking over some papers. She re¬ 
treated without a word, but the closing of the door 
betrayed her. 

It was Lavery who came out and found her, wrapped 
in her long coat, undoing the chain of the front door. 
He picked up a coat and joined her, not doubting that 
she wished him to do so. 

‘‘Laurence oughtn’t to work tonight,” she said 
sharply. “He isn’t fit to work.” 

“Well, I guess he has to—some papers he has to go 
over. . . . And he always says he works best at night,” 
drawled Lavery. “Fact is, though, he’s not looking 
well—complains of headache the last few days. Per¬ 
haps he ought to ease off a little—rest, if possible.” 

247 


248 


PROUD LADY 


“Rest!” Mary said with a short laugh. “I never 
knew him to rest.” 

“No, that’s so—he seems geared up to a certain 
speed. . . . But after all we have to relax a bit as we 
get older. The machine w 7 on’t stand the speed. And 
Laurence burns the candle at both ends. ’ 9 

They were walking down a path toward the lake. 
Mary did not ask what he meant. But he insisted. 

“I don’t mind a man drinking anything in reason. 
But I think Laurence is getting to depend too much on 
it—he has to key himself up to his work. That wonder¬ 
ful natural energy seems to be failing him.” 

Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her. 

“Why don’t you do something about it?” he asked 
abruptly. 

“Nothing that any one could say would make any 
difference to Laurence,” said Mary coldly. “He has 
always done exactly as he chose, and he always w r ill.” 

“Oh, has he?” murmured Lavery. “It strikes me 
he would be more apt to do what you wanted him to.” 

Mary laughed. “What I wanted!” She turned 
angrily on Lavery. “You know that isn’t true!” 

At the same time she was amazed at herself—speak¬ 
ing like this, of Laurence and herself, to a stranger. 
And the reckless other self over-ruled this protest—it 
could speak to this man and it would. 

“You know I never interfere in Laurence’s life. 
He lives as he chooses.” 

“He lives the way he has to, I guess,” said Lavery 
meditatively, “I don’t know that there’s much choice 
about it.” 




PROUD LADY 


249 


“Has to!” ejaculated Mary with contempt. “I 
should think you would be ashamed to say that.” 

They had approached the border of the lake, the 
breeze blew sweet and chill. Mary sat down on a 
bench, and Lavery, buttoning his coat, sat beside 
her. He knew he should catch cold, perhaps have an 
attack of lumbago, but no matter! 

“Now why should I be ashamed?” he asked, puzzled. 

“Why, because—that’s no way for a man to talk. . . . 
We don’t have to do what we don’t choose to.” 

“Oh, don’t we?” he murmured again. And after a 
moment, “Suppose there’s a clash between two wills, 
two people—one has to go down, doesn’t he, one has to 
submit, can’t get what he wants, has to take what he 
doesn’t want? How about that?” 

“I’m not talking about what we want, of course we 
don’t always get what we want. I’m talking about the 
way we live, whether we do what we know we ought to 
do or not—and I say we don’t have to live and do what 
we know is wrong. I say a man ought to die rather 
than do that! ’ ’ 

“Well, what is wrong?” enquired Lavery mildly. 
“Now I’ll tell you what I think. ... I think the most 
important thing for a man is his work, his output. If 
he’s got work that he believes in and loves, he’s got 
the best thing on earth. And anything’s right for 
him that helps him to do that work. And anything’s 
wrong, for him, that prevents him from doing it. For 
that’s what he’s for , that’s his reason for living, what 
he creates, that’s why he’s different from every other 
human being, so he can do just that thing. ... As for 




250 


PROUD LADY 


any other right and wrong, I don’t believe in ’em. We 
don’t get right and wrong handed to us, we have 
to make them as we go along. ’ ’ 

“Well, I am surprised, to hear you feel that way 
about work,” said Mary, showing her claws. 

“You think I don’t work? . . . Well, perhaps you 
wouldn’t recognize it. ... I admit the law isn’t my 
work, as it’s Laurence’s, in the creative sense. He’s 
been able to stick to that and do what he was meant to 
do—but he’s had to pay for it. That’s what the drink 
means, and—other things that you don’t like, perhaps.” 

He paused a moment, he didn’t want to seem malicious, 
but he went on: “Laurence is a strong man. He’s 
taken what he could get, to help him do his work, and 
I say he was right. But it wasn’t what he wanted. 
He didn’t want drink and other women, not seriously. 
It was trouble with you that made him turn to them.” 

She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery 
added: 

“I ought to say, he never said a word about that. 
It’s my own observation*, that’s all.” 

Again he was silent, w r atching her still profile, barely 
visible; guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of 
offended pride. (If she was determined to dislike him, 
he would give her something to dislike him for.) He 
decided that it was time for her to speak now. 

But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage 
against Lavery recoiled upon herself. . . . She deserved 
it, for talking to him in any sort of confidence, for 
breaking her reserve, compromising her personal 
dignity—of course he had taken advantage of this. 
She strove to re-establish her contempt of him. He 




PROUD LADY 


251 


should not see that she had felt his treacherous attack. 

It was some moments before she could say, coolly: 

“If you think Laurence has done right, why did 
you ask me to ‘ do something about it ’ ? ’ ’ 

He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, 
in irritation. 

“Why, I meant—I meant—that he had done the best 
he could, in the circumstances. . . . But it seems to me 
he’s under a heavy strain—in fact, perhaps in danger 
of breaking down under it. I wonder if you couldn’t 
ease it, somehow.” 

It was only partly a game. There was a sincere 
feeling in Lavery too. He admired—even though 
unwillingly—the more gifted man. Yes, and he had 
reluctant admiration for Mary too. 

“You don’t know anything about it,” she said. 

“No, perhaps I don’t,” he admitted. 

“I can’t see that it’s your business, at all.” 

“Well, I suppose it isn’t—unless on account of 
friendship. ” 

“I don’t believe in friendship.” 

I ‘ What do you believe in ? ” he asked. 

“I don’t believe in anything.” 

The words came out with violence. She was resisting 
the impulse to speak out, and yet she was speaking. 

‘ 1 I used to have faith—but now I haven’t anything. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, you have,” he said.” “You have faith— 
everything shows it.” 

II How ? What ? ’ ’ 

“Well, what you just said, that a man ought to die 
rather than do what is wrong—there’s faith, in the 
ideal of what a man is, what he ought to be. . . . And 




252 


PROUD LADY 


then you live without compromise, you don’t forgive— 
that’s faith.” 

‘ ‘ How do you know that—that I don’t forgive ? ’ ’ 

“Well, I can guess that you didn’t.” 

“And you think that’s good—not to forgive?” 

“I didn’t say it was good. It depends on how it works 
out. I said it showed faith. It means you have a 
standard and you can’t condone an offence against 
it—at any cost.” 

“Yes, but it might be only—that I couldn’t forgive 
an offence against me. ... It might be only—pride. 
You see how I mean, that I’ve lost faith. I don’t feel 
sure of anything.” 

“You’ve lost faith in yourself, you mean, but—” 

‘ ‘ Oh, not only in myself—in everything else ! ’ ’ 

1 ‘ And you used to feel sure ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes—I knew!” 

“And how was it, that you ceased to be sure?” 

“I think—people disappointed me—people I believed 
in—” 

‘ ‘ But you believe in something that isn’t people, 
don’t you—some rule of right and wrong that is above 
human life—” 

“I did—yes, I was very religious—I believed in a 
rule and measured people by it— ’ ’ 

“And when they didn’t measure up to it, you—” 

“Yes, I—didn’t forgive. Even now I despise people, 
for all sorts of reasons—can’t help it. . . . But now I 
think I was wrong. I don’t think I was religious at 
all—because, you see, it didn’t stand the test—I lost 
it—” 

“And when was that—that you lost it?” 





PROUD LADY 


253 


“I don’t know. It seems as if it had been going on 
for a long time, dying. ... I used to think that happi¬ 
ness didn’t count, that we ought not to think of it. But 
now I think that was when I was really happy. It isn’t 
so easy to live without it, really, for many years—it 
isn’t so easy!” 

She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. 
It was like speaking out to the night-wind and the 
starlight. She had spoken the last sentences in a 
rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor of a 
sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat 
silent. Lavery took her hand, and her fingers closed 
on his desperately. . . . All she cared for just then was 
not to cry. 

“Well, it’s true, we can’t live without it,” muttered 
Lavery. “You see, we lose faith in ourselves, without 
it—we feel we’ve been wrong, and we have been wrong— 
that’s the sign. . . . Then if we can’t get it back we take 
to dope—like me.” 

She heard what he said, but she did not answer. 
She was absorbed in the relief of her emotion, her con¬ 
fession, and the strange feeling of kinship with him, 
with this person she—didn’t like. For she did not 
like him any better than before, only it didn’t seem 
to matter now. What mattered was not to be entirely 
alone. 

She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, 
she grew calmer, and breathed a deep sigh. Then she 
noticed that Lavery was shivering. 

“Why, you’ll catch your death of cold,” she said, 

and got up. 

They walked back silently to the house. In the hall 




254* 


PROUD LADY 

he put out his hand to her again and said anxiously: 

‘'Look here now, you won’t hate me more for this, 
will you? That wouldn’t be fair.” 

“No!” she said with energy, smiling. “Not now. 
. . . I would, not long ago—but now I wouldn’t be so 
mean as that.” 

“Well, that’s good,” he said wanly. 





VIII 


T HE next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking 
in to see her father. She went often at the 
time when he would be home for his solitary 

supper. 

The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past 
it stretched the paved street, with wide sidewalks and 
gas-lamps at frequent intervals. The maple trees now 
overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or red, 
and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and 
along the walks. They rustled under Mary’s feet as 
she went holding up her long violet-coloured dress. She 
wore a mantle to match the dress, and a small bonnet 
made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with 
black velvet ribbons. 

She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her 
step, and unusual colour in her cheeks. She breathed 
in deeply the cool crisp air, she saw with pleasure the 
vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western sky: it 
was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. 
It had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All 
that had happened to her consciousness was that she 
had transgressed her own code; had forgotten her 
dignity and actually discussed her own most private 
affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had 
a strange sense of freedom, of companionship in some 
impersonal way. She did not think more of Lavery 

because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence 

255 


256 


PROUD LADY 


that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she 
ever saw him again or not. But if she saw him certainly 
she would talk to him again. She was less a prisoner 
now; some barrier had been pierced, and she looked 
out on the world. 

As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar 
figure, a slim black-coated figure, pushing a small baby- 
carriage. It was Hilary. He had married a buxom 
efficient widow, three years before; and in the carriage 
was his eighteen-months’ old daughter, a small, very 
lively baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and 
held out her hand to Hilary, with a friendly warmth 
that she had not shown him for many years. She 
asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who 
bounced up and down and fixed upon her eyes spar¬ 
kling with energy. Hilary’s eyes too were upon her, 
in surprise. 

He had changed very little in ten years. His face 
was quieter, perhaps, less drawn. The wife took care 
of him, fed and clothed him properly. No one now 
thought that he would go into a decline. But his 
eyes showed the same ardour and intensity of life. He 
worked harder than ever, for his church had grown, 
and incidentally had become factious. Hilary had to 
meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the 
preaching of the gospel; the time would come when 
he would be forced to leave this church too, and go 
forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went to 
church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how 
she had felt about his marriage; disenchantment, almost 
disgust, though she had long before that ceased her 




PROUD LADY 


257 


intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as celibate, she 
now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was 
a man like other men. No, after all, he was better 
than most, he was more of a man. She smiled at 
him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon to 
see his wife. 

“How well you are looking/’ he said as she started 
on, still with that surprised gaze at her. 

‘‘It must be this wonderful weather—it makes one 
feel so alive! ’ ’ she called back, laughing at the white 
lie. In this mood she could tell all kinds of lies, with¬ 
out conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no, 
it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, 
irresponsible. In this mood she wouldn’t care what 
she did. Now why? She shook her head and gave 
it up—couldn’t say why. 

She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed 
that a hinge was loose; and that the pickets needed 
painting. The grass was long too in the front yard. 
She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low 
frame house. That too needed a coat of paint—why, 
it was shabby, it was all going to seed. Her brow 
wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn’t noticed this 
before—how long had it been this way? Her father 
had been used always to keep the place trim and neat. 
Was he getting too old to look after it, or to care? 
She felt a pang. . . . She must send down a gardener 
to fix up the yard. 

She opened the creaking front door and entered the 
narrow hall. The familiar odour met her—old wall¬ 
paper, old furniture, a slight closeness, a faint smell 




258 


PROUD LADY 


of cooking. But she liked it—it was home. She went 
into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting 
the table for Dr. Lowell’s supper. 

“Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn’t Father home yet?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable 
yet.” 

The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress 
and white apron, went out into the kitchen. She came 
by the day to “do for” Dr. Lowell, and he lived alone 
in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the table, 
wrinkled her nose, and sat dowm in the rocker by the 
window, where streaks of gold and red glimmered, 
making a rosy light within. Nothing had been changed 
in this room, or for that matter in the house since her 
mother’s death. In fact, she couldn’t remember when 
it had not looked just this way. 

The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, 
the brown and gilt wall-paper a little more faded. 
There was dust on the furniture that would not have 
been there in her mother’s time. But the old clock 
ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals 
glowed in the open stove, the cat stretched itself and 
yawned in the armchair, the glass of cream stood 
as always by her father’s plate. In this house it 
always seemed afternoon, verging on evening. . . . Yes, 
and there, in the grass under the window, the sound 
always associated with home—the faint wiry chirping 
of the crickets. . . . Short bright autumn days—long 
cold nights drawing on—was that why they were so 
plaintive ? 





PROUD LADY 


259 


She heard her father come into the kitchen, and 
then the splashing of water. Washing up in the kit¬ 
chen—lazy father! Probably he even kept a comb out 
there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, 
living by themselves. Or perhaps he was just too 
tired to go upstairs. Yes, when he came in, she saw 
his thin hair had been freshly combed—and he 
did look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! 
Why hadn’t she noticed that he was getting 
old? 

He was delighted to see her, still more when she got 
up and kissed him with uncommon warmth. 

‘ 1 Well, now, this is nice! Can’t you have supper 
with me?” he asked happily, lifting the cat out of his 
chair and sitting down. Mary drew up a chair opposite 
him and put her elbows on the table. 

“I can’t eat, because there’s the family dinner, you 
know, but I’ll sit with you anyway. What have you 
got?” 

Mrs. Hansen put the supper on the table and retired 
behind a closed door. 

‘ ‘ Cream-toast—dried beef—soda-biscuits—well, I 
don’t call that a solid meal after a good day’s work! 
That’s an old lady’s supper. Why don’t you have a 
steak, Father, something substantial?” 

“ Can’t, my dear,” he said smiling. “Too heavy 
for me—can’t eat much meat. This is just what I 
like.” 

He tucked the napkin under his thin beard, still 
auburn more than grey, and began to eat. Mary 
took a biscuit and broke it open,. 




260 


PROUD LADY 


4 ‘It’s light,” she conceded. “I guess she’s a good 
enough cook.” 

“Oh, she’s first-rate—I live in clover,” smiled Dr. 
Lowell. 

“Well, hardly that—” 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes. . . . But say, how splendid you look, Mary! 
Been to some grand blowout?” 

“No, I made some calls. Do you like this bonnet?” 

“It’s fine—what there is of it. Dress too—there’s 
plenty of that. Why have that long tail on it ? ” 

“Well, it’s the fashion,” said Mary indulgently. 

“You look very nice indeed. Better than you have 
all summer.” 

“Well, Father, I can’t say as much for you. You 
look tired out.” 

“I am, at night. But I get up like a lark in the 
morning. ’ ’ 

“You work too hard. You ought to have a man 
to drive you now, and an assistant—and only go 
out on great occasions, when you get a big fee, you 
know! ’ ’ 

A faint uneasiness showed in Dr. Lowell’s face. 

“Now don’t you go trying to take away my work. 
That’s the quick way to break a man up. . . . I’m going 
to die in harness,” he declared. 

“Well, I’m afraid you will,” and Mary’s lips quivered. 
He was quick to notice and to soothe her. 

“Don’t you worry. There’s a lot of work in the 
old man yet. I’m not seventy. And I don’t go out 
much at night any more, you know, or in very bad 
weather—unless it’s life or death. . . . Oh, they have to 
consider me now! ’ ’ 




PROUD LADY 


261 


“Well, it’s time they did. You never considered 
yourself. ’ ’ 

There was unwonted emotion in her face and voice. 
He was touched, and surprised. 

“I should think you’d be proud of me,” he said 
lightly. “All these smart young doctors in town—but 
they don’t get my practice unless I want to give it to 
’em. . . . People sending for me from all over the county 
—pay my expenses and anything I want to ask. They 
don 7 t think I’m too old to work. ’ ’ 

“I am proud of you. I never said you were too old. 
I think you’re a great man.” 

He laughed. “I wasn’t fishing to that extent.” 

“Well, I want you to know that I admire you. T 
think you’ve had the most successful life I know about.” 

“Sounds like my obituary,” he commented. 

But Mary was groping for something she wanted to 
say, something newly felt. Looking at his small bent 
figure, his face, so gentle yet with something hard and 
firm in its calmness, suddenly she seemed to see him, 
his long laborious life, in a flash of light. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” she said solemnly. 

It was a strange word, and Dr. Lowell was visibly 
abashed. He fidgeted, made a feeble joke, and then 
looked sharply at Mary’s unwonted colour and bright 
eyes. 

“What’s the matter? You’re not going to—sure 
you feel perfectly well, Mary?” 

“Why, yes. . . . But Laurence isn’t. I wish you’d 
drop in and see him. He’ll be home tomorrow night. 
Suppose you come to dinner and take a look at him.” 

“What ails him?” 




262 


PROUD LADY 


“He complains of headaches lately and he looks— 
well, you’ll see. Keeps right on working, though. 
You’ll come? The boys always want to see you too, 
you know.” 

“Well, they do. They drop in here quite often— 
especially Jim. I think maybe we might make a doctor 
of Jim.” 

“You do?” Mary’s eyes opened wide. “Has he 
shown any interest that way? He never said a word to 
me about it.” 

“Yes, we’ve talked it over. He is interested. He 
takes to science. Has a good mind, that boy—kind of 
slow, but thorough. Likes to get to the bottom of things. 
He could work hard if he was interested.” 

“Well!” Mary pondered this. Then she said, “I’ve 
been worried about him—he runs around at night and 
won’t tell me where he goes.” 

“I know where he goes,” said Dr. Lowell placidly. 

“You do? He tells you?” 

“Oh, Jim and I are great friends. He’s all right, 
Mary. . . . But you must realize—Jim’s almost a man, 
and he’s a strapping healthy fellow—you can’t hold too 
tight a rein on him, if you do he’ll kick over the traces.” 

Mary frowned, looked sullen. “I think I ought to 
know what he’s doing.” 

“Well, I’d just as soon tell you, but you’d very 
likely make a row and it would be bad for Jim. . . . Use 
your imagination, Mary.” 

She pushed back her chair, rose and walked to the 
window. Dr. Lowell cast a shrewd glance at her and 
took a piece of custard pie. 

“I think you ought to be proud of your output, 




PROUD LADY 


263 


Mary—you ought to be a proud and happy woman.” 

“What, Father?” 

“Those three boys—fine fellows, all of them. What 
more d’ye want? And you haven’t spoiled them by 
petting. They think a lot of you. And you haven’t 
nagged them—not very much.” 

Mary turned around. “Then you think—really—?” 

“Oh, yes, you’ve done well. . . . One thing more you 
might do—but I doubt if you could—let them feel that 
they could tell you anything, whatever they do. They 
might not tell you, wouldn’t probably, but if they felt 
they could, without you being horrified, it would be 
better for them. . . . But of course you can only do that 
if you feel that what they want or need is a lot more 
important than what they do. . . . Sometimes I think, 
Mary, that you care more for what people do than for 
what they are. . . . Think it over.” 

Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, 
got up and took out his pipe, filled it from a leather 
bag and lit it. An acrid smoke issued from the old 
meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the fire. 
Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in 
the smoke she didn’t notice it. She had stood absorbed 
in some difficult and displeasing thought—but turning 
and looking at her father she saw how bent and shrivelled 
he looked in the big chair. 

“Father, aren’t you awfully lonely here in the even¬ 
ings?” she asked suddenly. 

“No, no—I’ve got lots of reading to do, journals and 
new books—I try to keep up with my profession, you 
know. No, I’m never lonely.” 

“I should think you’d miss Mother a lot.” 




264 


PROUD LADY 


“I do—yes, I miss her. . . . But it’s quieter this 
way.” 

“Father! The things you say!” 

“Why shouldn’t I say them. . . . Your mother and I 
got on very well indeed, and if I ever see her again I 
guess we’ll get on just as well.” 

“If you do! Why, don’t you think you will?” 

“I don’t know, my dear, I couldn’t tell you.” He 
puffed meditatively at his pipe. “And I don’t think 
anybody else can tell you either. ’ ’ 

“I don’t see how you can bear to see so many people 
die if that’s the way you feel, if you think there’s 
nothing more! ’ ’ cried Mary. 

“I keep them from dying, if I can—that’s my job. . . . 
I don’t say there’s nothing more. But I say we haven’t 
begun to learn about this world—there’s enough here 
to keep us busy for all the time we’ve got—we’re just 
ignorant. Life ... it’s mystery on mystery. . . . 
We can settle what death is when we get to it.” 

“You’re not afraid of death?” she asked absently. 

“No, child, no . . . sometimes I feel I’d like a long 
rest ... or a new set of feelings, ideas ... or some¬ 
thing. There’s only one thing I’m afraid of, I confess— 
to live on when I’m no use any more and have to be 
taken care of.” He made a wry face. “Don’t see how 
I could stand that. I hope I die with my boots on.” 

“Well, don’t you do it yet awhile.” Mary bent 
down and kissed the top of his head. “We need you. 
I’ll think over what you said—about the boys—and then 
I guess I’d like to talk to you again about it. ... I must 
go now. You’ll come tomorrow night?” 

“Yes, I’ll come.” 




PROUD LADY 


265 


On her way to the door she turned. “I declare! I 
forgot to ask you if you’d seen old Mr. Carlin.” 

‘‘Yes, John fetched him in here yesterday. We had 
quite a chat.” 

“Did you ever hear of such a thing—walking in like 
that and telling me ‘ I’m Laurence’s father! ’ Cool as 
a cucumber ! I never saw such an old man! ’ ’ 

“How did Laurence take it?” 

“Well, there never was any love lost between them, 
you know—he was taken aback at first, but they seemed 
to get on well enough.” 

“And he’s gone?” 

“The old gentleman? Yes—went to Chicago today. 
He said he’d drop in and see us again some time! ’ ’ 

She laughed quite gaily as she went out. 

It had occurred to her to see if the garden at the hack 
of the house was neglected too, so she went round that 
way. Yes, the grass-borders were unkempt, the only 
flowers were straggling marigolds and asters; dahlias 
blackened by frost drooped forlornly. No wonder, he 
hacln ’t strength now to keep it up. But she thought back 
and seemed to see that from the time of her mother s 
death the garden had been running down. “I guess 
he misses her more than he thinks,” she reflected. 

She stood looking into the orchard, where among 
almost bare boughs a few red apples still clung. She 
felt a desire to go on into the pasture and look at the deep 
still pool there, which she had not seen for long. She re¬ 
membered the look of it well—how as a child it had 
fascinated and frightened her, even haunting her 
dreams. . . . But the pasture was trampled by cows, and 
in this dress and these thin shoes. . . . 




266 


PROUD LADY 


She turned to go home, wrapping her mantle round 
her. The wind was rising, blowing out of a bank of 
cloud that now covered the western sky. A few sunset 
embers glimmered there low down. In the wind sweep¬ 
ing over the prairie there was a low booming sound 
and when, the gusts rose higher an ominous whistle. 
A storm was coming, out of those immense, endless 
stretches to the west. 




IX 


A LL night long the wind roared round the house, 
dashing gusts of sleety rain against the western 
windows. At times even the thick walls shook. 
The lake rose into waves that pounded on the shore. 
Mary tried to read herself to sleep but in vain. At last 
she put out her light, and thoughts, images, questions, 
raced through her mind as she lay in darkness. 

A happy woman . . . proud and happy, she ought 
to be. But what had she to be proud of. . . . Men 
were more fortunate, they had their work, could really 
achieve something, could take anything they wanted. 
. . . . Laurence took what he wanted, to help him do 
his work, and I say he was right. . . . Laurence went 
his own way, apart from her. ... Of course apart, 
she had driven him away. No, he had begun it before 
that. But she hadn’t done her duty by him, it was her 
duty to forgive. . . . No, she didn’t believe in forgive¬ 
ness, didn’t believe in duty. It wouldn’t have worked 
any better. He would have gone his own way anyhow. 
And now the boys were beginning too. . . . Use your 
imagination, Mary. . . . 

She didn’t want to use her imagination, she was 
afraid of it. Yes, afraid. . . . All sorts of things that 
she had shut out in the dark, wouldn’t look at, and now 
they were horrible to her. . . . Why should one have 
to look at the dark side of life, the animal side? . . . 

But suppose that was really life, suppose we were just 

267 


268 


PROUD LADY 


animals and nothing more—all the rest words. That 
might very well be. . . . Her father had spent his life 
taking care of the physical body, he didn’t believe in 
anything else, didn’t look forward. . . . Life ... it’s 
mystery on mystery . . . we’re just ignorant. . . . 
What was it then that made him so calm and strong, 
not afraid of anything ? She had thought that this was 
what religion did for you, but he had never had any 
religion, yet he had always been like this, since she could 
remember him. Hilary had it too, that same strength, 
and with him perhaps it was religion. . . . But she 
didn’t believe in religion, heaven was empty, God had 
melted away completely, she didn’t believe in him. 

She tossed restlessly, the tumult without echoing 
the storm within. It seemed that the wind was driving 
through her head, her thoughts were like whirling 
leaves. . . . 

Why should she be proud of her sons? They were 
not hers, they were Laurence’s as much as hers, perhaps 
more; they were distinct individuals, did not belong to 
her, she had almost no part in them. And she had not 
trained them in the way they should go . . . how could 
she, when since the early days she had ceased to believe 
in any definite way? They had just grown up them¬ 
selves. ... You haven’t nagged them, not very 
much. . . .Was that what her father thought of moral 
teaching? They had learned not to lie or steal, of 
course. But as they grew to be men they would begin 
again. Jim had already begun. He lied to her, and 
apparently told the truth to his grandfather. . . . Let 
them feel that they could tell you anything—they 
wouldn’t tell you probably. . . . No, they would have 




PROUD LADY 


■■■■■ ■ " < 

269 


their lives apart, and she would be alone still— In her 
youth she had never felt lonely, but now. . . . 

Lavery knew what loneliness was, that was why she 
had talked to him. He had known how she was feeling 
before she spoke, otherwise she would never have spoken. 
He was worldly wise, but that was all, or nearly all— 
it wasn’t much. His consolations—what use were they ? 
Soft living, books, music, little adventures. . . . She 
would rather jump into the lake than live like that. 
Why not? . . . Nobody would miss her very much. 
The boys at first, it would be a shock, of course. And 
Laurence would have to find somebody to run the house. 
Her father would miss her, and it would be a town- 
scandal, a mystery. . . . Why on earth. ... A woman 
with everything to live for. . . . Temporary insanity. 
. . . And then, prying and prowling gossip. 

Why not? Well, of course she would never do it. 
Life was too strong in her—physical life. She would 
have to be inconceivably miserable before she could 
seek death. She was afraid of death, now that beyond 
it lay the void. 

And it was still good to live, in some ways. Even 
today she had known pleasure, more than for a long 
time. Something had lifted her up. This was the re¬ 
action. ... If only she could sleep ! If the wind would 
stop howling like a lost soul round the house! 

Why was it that she had lost the faith that in her 
girlhood had made her so strong and secure? . . . She 
had said to Lavery it was because people had disap¬ 
pointed her. But was that a reason for losing her 
faith in God? Wasn’t there something above and be¬ 
yond this human life, so often petty and sordid, these 




270 


PROUD LADY 


weak human beings—something fixed, sure, always good 
and beautiful, a refuge? . . . No, there was nothing, 
or if there was, she could not find it. When she had 
thought she loved God, it was only that she loved people 
—Hilary in one way, Laurence in another—and be¬ 
lieved in them. And then at one stroke she had lost 
both of them. They had been cut away from her—or 
was it that she had done it, cut them away, repelled 
and denied them both? If a man loves not his brother 
whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath 
not seen? . . . Then she had lost all that remained to 
her, the joy in her children, her content with herself, 
and that feeling of rightness. . . . From him that hath 
not shall be taken away even that which he hath. . . . 
Now she would be glad to go away from everybody, 
even the children. . . . 

Toward morning she slept, and woke unwillingly at 
a knock on her door. 

11 Breakfast’s ready—aren’t you coming down ? ’ ’ 

It was Jim. She said sleepily, “Oh, I’m tired, 
hardly slept all night. I guess I won’t get up.” 

Jim looked aggrieved. 

“It’s rotten when you don’t come down,” he said. 
Then, turning away he enquired sulkily, “Well, shall 
I bring up your breakfast?” 

How vigorous and vivid his young figure looked, in 
the grey morning light—his brown glowing colour, how 
pleasant to see! 

“Yes—no, I’ll get up,” she said. 

Still he lingered. 




PROUD LADY 


271 


>— - ■ . .... i ...I . . — . . I, . . ■- i —* 

“Well, if you’re very tired—I’ll bring it up if you 
want me to.” 

“No, I say I’ll get up. Run along.” 

“I’d just as soon bring it up—” 

“Run along!” 

She laughed as he shut the door, and sprang up, to see 
if she could make it in ten minutes. It was rather more 
than that, but she got down to find the three boys at 
the breakfast-table; and Jim rose and pulled out her 
chair for her, a mark of special favour. A bright fire 
crackled in the chimney, the silver coffee-urn hissed 
cheerfully in the middle of the table; the room was 
warm and pleasant, with the rain beating against the 
windows. The boys all smiled at her, and Jim, showing 
his big white teeth, passed his cup for more coffee. 
One cup was his allowance, but she filled it up. 

1 ‘ What a night! ’ ’ she said. 1 ‘ Did you hear the wind ? 
I couldn’t sleep—could you?” 

They had all slept like tops, hadn’t noticed any wind, 
that is, only John had noticed it. “I like storms,” he 
said. “I like a big storm, but it doesn’t keep me awake. 
I’d like to be out on the lake in a big wind. ’ ’ 

“Yes, you would,” murmured Timothy sceptically. 

“Ma, I wish you’d make Tim brush his hair,” drawled 
the eldest. “Look at it.” 

“I have brushed it—it won’t lie down, that’s all. 
It’s a cowlick or something. ’ ’ 

“Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut.” 

“Yes, I guess you do,” said Mary, looking at 
Timothy’s thick disorderly black mop. “You can go 
after school and get one.” 





272 


PROUD LADY 


Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly. 

“What’s that for?” 

“Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she’s 
late as usual. It’s half-past eight now.” 

The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and 
they vanished quickly, with no comment except, “Pass 
the butter. . . . Maple-syrup, please—I’ll take a couple 
more, Mother.” Then the three said, “Please excuse 
me,” and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the 
usual hubbub. “That’s my coat you’ve got . . . Where’s 
my cap? . . . Confound it, who took my rubbers? . . .” 

Mary went out to say, “All your rubbers are on the 
shelf in the coat-closet,” to make sure that nobody 
rushed off without his rubbers, to hear their shouted 
good-byes. The door banged behind them. She smiled 
and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold 
bath and coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in 
spite of a bad night. The world always looked more 
cheerful in the morning, especially when the boys were 
about—they were so full of life, all of them, they were 
nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always 
be young, things wouldn’t be so bad. Life might be 
rather pleasant if you didn’t look into it too much. 

She finished her coffee and went into the big clean 
drab-coloured kitchen to interview the cook about the 
day’s meals and write lists for the grocer and butcher. 
She ordered a good dinner—Laurence w T ould be home, 
her father was coming, there might be other guests, for 
Laurence often brought some one. The cook stood by 
the table, rolling her hands in her apron and looking 
rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her usual quick 
inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said: 




PROUD LADY 


273 


“Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the 
month.” 

“Why?” asked Mary sharply. 

“Oh—I think I be leaving.” 

“Is it the work—the wages?’’ 

“No—no, I like the place, but ... I think I be 
leaving.” 

Mary gazed at her, and finally said, “I know what 
it is—you’ve been quarrelling with Anna.” 

The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen. 

“Now, Hilda,” said Mary firmly, “you’ve been with 
me a year; in that time I’ve had three waitresses, and 
you’ve quarrelled with every one of them. I like Anna 
and I’m not going to let her go. I like you too, but 
you’re hard to get along with. If you want to leave 
at the end of the month you can. I don’t want to hear 
what you’ve been fighting about. I advise you to think 
it over, and remember you’ll always quarrel, wherever 
you go, that’s the way you’re made. Let me know in 
a week.” 

She went her rounds, praised the good order she 
found, and departed sighing. Another raw cook to 
train, probably! It took just about a year to break 
them in, and then. . . . Anna was doing the dining¬ 
room as she passed through and looked suspiciously 
bottled-up, but Mary gave her no chance to complain. 
Of course they would fight, those two—any two would, 
they hadn’t enough else to occupy their minds. She 
wished she could get along with one servant, but in this 
big house it was impossible, it was hard work for two. 

The house felt cold—she must send for the furnace- 
man and have him start the fires. She went back to 





274 


PROUD LADY 


tell Anna to tell the gardener to go for Mike at once. 
Then she wrapped a mantle about her and went into 
the parlours, two big connecting rooms. They were 
glacially cold. 

It had occurred to her this morning that the house was 
gloomy. She didn’t know why she hadn’t noticed it 
before. Nothing had been changed since they had lived 
in the house, ten years. Perhaps that was the trouble. 
She had not been interested enough to want to change 
anything; had accepted it all, as Laurence and the 
decorators presented it, with indifference. She had 
never been interested in house-furnishings; if Laurence 
liked this, it was enough. But it took an enormous 
amount of work to keep all these heavy carpets and 
curtains clean, and all this light furniture. And in 
spite of perpetual cleaning there was always a musty 
smell when the windows were shut, as now. She frowned, 
looking critically about her. 

The heavy cut-lace curtains covering the windows 
had turned yellow with age. The thick silk draperies 
over these inner curtains showed streaks where the 
sun had faded them. The figured satin upholstery of 
the carved and fretted couches and chairs was rather 
faded too. . . . All this expensive stuff—and now, 
after only ten years, it had to be replaced! And the 
bric-a-brac on the gilt tables and the mantel-pieces,— 
the gilt clocks and all that fragile porcelain that took 
such a lot of dusting—there was not a single thing 
that she had selected, or liked. But when it came to 
replacing all this, her mind was a blank. Only she 
would like something quieter, not gilt stuff, satin, or 
little figures of shepherdesses, animals, boys riding 





PROUD LADY 


275 


on goats, and so on. . . . Probably she would just have 
to get another decorator. How cold it all looked in 
this grey light, reflected in the two long mirrors at 
either end and the oblong mirrors over the mantel¬ 
pieces ! 

The boys liked this house. She had discovered just 
lately how much they liked it. Its size—the big rooms 
—it was still the biggest house in town. They had a 
lordly feeling about it. They were secretly proud of 
their position, as sons of the town’s most eminent 
citizen, and of this house, as the symbol of his superi¬ 
ority. . . . Well, if they liked it, there was no harm 
in making it a little more cheerful. 

She crossed the hall into the library, where she usually 
read or wrote or received her visitors, for Laurence 
was never at home during the day. There was a roaring 
big fire in the grate. This room was all right. A 
library should be rather sombre, with big plain pieces 
of furniture, the walls covered with books. It had 
the look of being used, lived in; and its red hangings 
had kept their deep colour. Yes, this would do—besides, 
Laurence probably wouldn’t want it changed. It was 
the only place in the house that seemed to belong to 
him. 

She went over to her table, where she had left her 
unfinished paper on iEschylus. Her lips curled in a 
derisive smile. iEsehylus! What did those women 
care about Greek tragedies? . . . They brought their 
knitting or fancy-work, sat and listened or didn’t listen, 
while somebody lectured to them. They felt they were 
getting culture, keeping up with the times—or rather, it 
was the thing to belong to the Literary Society, they 





276 


PROUD LADY 


didn’t dare not to belong. . . . Before Mary had taken 
the presidency, they had had readings from the novels 
of the day; some lady who had travelled would read 
a paper on the Yosemite Valley; or there would be 
a written debate on the respective merits of Dickens 
and Thackeray. Oral discussion was unknown, the 
ladies had no practice in public speaking. . . . Well, 
she had made them work, anvway. She had made 
an elaborate program for the study of Greek civilization, 
and all this past year had driven or coaxed them 
through it. She had bought a list of books on Greece 
for the library; and insisted on the ladies reading 
and reporting on them. At the meetings she asked 
questions, stooped to flatter them a little and tried to 
make them talk. It was hard work. They didn’t 
really want to get anything for themselves, preferred 
to be spoon-fed. There were not more than two women 
in town who had any intellectual interests, and she 
was the only one who knew even a little Greek. 

Why bother them? They had their own absorbing 
interests—family, houses, friends, church. Most of 
them worked pretty hard at home too. She had done it 
for her own amusement and occupation, or out of 
vanity, to make them feel her superiority. They were 
afraid of her, and she had liked that. She had not 
one real friend among them. . . . Better resign, and 
let them have a good time. 

She sat down, throwing off her cloak, and began 
to look over her manuscript. It represented a good 
deal of work. She had consulted many authorities, 
and read the plays, with Greek text and translation 
side by side. There were the books piled on the 




PROUD LADY 


277 


table, full of little slips of paper with her notes. She 
had been conscientious, thorough, giving the best work 
she could do. No doubt to impress them with her schol¬ 
arship. She smiled again sardonically as she listened 
to that inner impish voice that had been her companion 
now for a long time, commenting on everything she 
did, sneering. . . . 

Anna brought in a telegram. She took it, knowing 
in a flash what it was. Yes. “ Sorry cannot get out 
tonight important case needs all my attention for 
several days will wire when I can get away Laurence.” 

Yes, the usual thing. Only this message was longer 
than usual, he had wasted several words. She crumpled 
up the paper and threw it into the fire. . . . She had 
intended to talk to him tonight about doing over the 
house. Then there was her father coming to see him. 
Well, he couldn’t be ill if he was staying away indefi¬ 
nitely. He was just—busy. . . . She would send word to 
her father not to come, it was bad weather, a steady 
driving rain that threatened to last all day. 

She took up her pen and looked at the page before 
her—sat a long time looking at it. In spite of the 
glowing fire her hands grew cold, too cramped finally 
to hold the pen, and she dropped it. 

Why should she care? All that was over long ago— 
buried. 

Only sometimes it seemed that nothing ever could 
be buried securely. It was as if the long grown-over 
ground should stir, and something that had been buried 
too soon, still alive. . . . 




X 


T WO days passed, without word from Laurence. 
He seldom stayed away as long as this without 
sending some message, except when he was on 
circuit. The third day, as Mary was driving back 
from the meeting where she had read her paper on 
iEschylus, she saw Jim on the street; he threw up his 
hand, came running and jumped into the carriage. 

“I was coming for you, Mr. Lavery’s at the house— 
Father’s ill—he wants you to go to the city. They 
think it’s typhoid.” He leaned forward and told the 
coachman to drive faster. “You can get the six-thirty 
in if you hurry.” 

He could tell her no more in answer to her questions. 
He looked very sober. As they turned in through the 
gates he said, “Don't you think I’d better go with 
you? You’ll want somebody besides that fellow.” 

“I don’t know—wait,” said Mary sharply. 

Lavery was at the steps, came forward; but Jim 
sprang out and gave his hand to Mary. Lavery looked 
pale and worried. 

“You’ll just have the time to pack a bag. . . . The 
doctor isn’t positive yet, but looks like typhoid—he’s 
got a high fever.” 

The coachman was told to wait and they all hurried in¬ 
to the house. 

‘ ‘ How long has he been ill ? ” demanded Mary. 

“Well, since we went in, but—” 

278 


PROUD LADY 


279 


“Why didn’t some one let me know?” 

He didn’t want me to. . . . Now you better get 
ready. I’ll talk to you on the train.” 

He turned away, perhaps to avoid further questions. 
Why had he come for her instead of telegraphing? . . . 
But she was already on her way upstairs, followed by the 
three boys and Anna. They stood about in her room 
and tried to help while she got out her leather bag 
and put the necessary things in it. She changed her 
silk dress for one of dark cloth, tied her bonnet with 
shaking fingers; it was hard for her to hurry. Jim 
went down and brought her a glass of sherry and 
some crackers. 

“You’ll miss your dinner, better drink this,” he 
urged. 

She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him. 

“Can’t I go with you?” he asked again. “Maybe 
you’ll need me.” 

“I’ll see—but now I want you to look after things 
here. You’ll have to be the man of the house.” 

A pang shot through her at those words, she frowned 
and snapped her bag shut. She was ready. John, 
who had not uttered a word, took her hand as they 
went downstairs. His fingers were cold and trembling. 

“Don’t you worry,” she said sharply. “I don’t 
believe it’s serious. I’ll telegraph Jim tomorrow. 
Now you all be good, get your lessons, go to bed on 
time—and, Jim, you better go tell your grandfather—” 

They all swarmed after her to the carriage. The 
cook came too, calling: 

“We get along all right, Mrs. Carlin, don’t worry 
about us—we do everything we can, Anna and me—” 




280 


PROUD LADY 


The three boys kissed her, Jim the last, putting a 
manly arm around her; she thought how grave and 
strong his young face looked. Lavery stepped into 
the carriage, the coachman whipped up his horses; 
they just made the train. 

After a few questions and brief answers Mary sat 
silent, staring blankly out of the window, during the 
hour’s journey. She found that Laurence had not 
sent for her, Lavery had come on his own responsibility. 
The doctor had only this afternoon made the diagnosis 
of typhoid—he was a smart young man, the best in 
the city, Lavery thought. And Lavery had taken the 
tiresome journey instead of telegraphing because he 
had to explain that Laurence was not at a hotel or 
hospital, but staying at a friend’s house, from which 
it was thought best not to move him. Laurence had 
some rooms at this house, it seemed, and—in fact 
generally stayed there when he was in the city. Mary 
did not know the name or address—she addressed 
Laurence when necessary at the Palmer Hotel. But 
she guessed whose house it was that she was going to. 
He must be very ill. Otherwise Lavery would hardly 
be taking her there. . . . When he had made his halting 
explanation she had listened, said gravely, “Yes, I see. 
You did quite right,” and then turned away. 

There was a long drive over the rough cobble-stones, 
through streets at first brightly lighted, then almost 
dark. They approached the lake shore. The carriage 
stopped before a dimly lighted house standing by itself, 
but not far from a block of houses of similar size. 




PROUD LADY 


4 


281 


Lavery helped Mary out and while he was paying the 
driver she took her bag and walked up to the narrow 
porch. The door opened above; a woman’s figure 
appeared against the light in the hall. The gas-light 
had a red-glass shade and cast a rosy glow down on the 
thin woman in a tight-fitting black silk dress who stood 
aside to admit the visitor. Red hair, twisted in a 
thick rough coil on top of her head . . . eyes inflamed 
with tears and now opened wide . . . Mary recognized 
Nora. She bent her head with an inarticulate murmur. 
Nora simply looked at her. Then Lavery came in 
and shut the door. 

“This way,” he said, starting up the narrow stairs. 
Mary followed. He glanced down at Nora, and asked, 
“Any change since I left? Has the doctor been?” 

She shook her head but did not speak, seemed unable 
to speak. 

On the landing, lit by a dim gas-jet, opened two 
large connecting rooms. The one into which Lavery led 
the way was in some disorder. A big table with a 
student-lamp and sheaves of papers was pushed into 
a corner, easy-chairs littered with cigar-ashes stood in 
the middle of the floor; on a stand with decanters 
and glasses lay Laurence’s gold repeater. The door 
into the farther room opened noiselessly and a young 
woman in a light dress and white apron came out. 

“The nurse, Miss Macdonald,” said Lavery in a 
low tone. “Mrs. Carlin. How is he?” 

“About the same. Dr. Sayre will be in between 
eight and nine. He’s very restless.” As Mary went 
toward the other room she added: “I’m afraid he 
won’t know you.” 




282 


PROUD LADY 


On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight 
of carving, dark as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, 
his hands grasping at the coverlet, his head rolling on 
the pillow. His eyes were half-open and he was mur¬ 
muring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touch¬ 
ing his burning hands and forehead, bending over him, 
Mary could hear no word clearly, only an inarticulate 
murmur of distress. He did not notice her presence nor 
give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his 
name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rum¬ 
pled wildly, his eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. 
He tossed away from her, moaning heavily. A dark- 
greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in 
this light he looked ghastly. 

The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. 
After a few moments Mary got up and beckoned her to 
the window. 

‘‘How long has he been like this?” 

“Since I came this morning—only a little more 
restless toward night.” 

“He looks terribly ill.” 

“The doctor ought to be here very soon,” said the 
nurse non-committally. 

Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, 
then went back into the study. Lavery was there, 
sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking. Mary turned 
to close the connecting door and he got up, holding 
his cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her 
face deathly pale, and clutched his arm. 

‘ ‘ Laurence is going to die! . . . I want to telegraph 
for my father! ’’ 

“He isn’t going to die!” cried Lavery angrily. “I 




PROUD LADY 


283 


didn’t think you’d lose your head like this, first thing, 
or I wouldn’t have gone for you.” 

But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole 
body trembling, he softened somewhat. “Look here, 
you’re too scared. Have you ever seen anybody very 
sick before?” 

“No . . . no . . she muttered. “My mother . . . 
but not like this. ... He’s so strong. ...” 

“Well, he’s sick, but we’re going to pull him through. 
. . . Now look here, are you going to help or not? 
When I went for you I said to myself, that woman’s 
got good nerve, she’ll be a help. But if you’re going 
to be scared to death, first look at him—” 

“No—I’ll be all right—just a minute—he’s never 
been sick before. ...” 

“Well, I know, but you’re going to pull yourself 
together. . . . And you come downstairs and eat a bit 
with me before the doctor gets here. You haven’t had 
dinner and neither have I. ... I told them to have some¬ 
thing. About telegraphing your father, we’d better wait 
till you can speak to Sayre about it—that’s etiquette and 
it won’t hinder anything. I don’t believe he could get 
a train in tonight, could he ? ” 

1 ‘ Eleven-thirty. ’ ’ 

“Well, it would be too bad to keep him up all night, 
if not necessary. You wait and see Sayre. . . . And now 
come down, you’ll feel better when you’ve got some 
food.” 

She followed him down into the small brightly-lit 
dining-room, sat opposite him at the table, took soup, 
wine and coffee. She was aware of a black figure mov¬ 
ing round the table, bringing dishes in and taking them 




284 


PROUD LADY 


■■ ' ■ . . . - .. — ■ i. i -■ , 

out. . . . Then suddenly, with an almost audible click 
of the machinery, her mind began to work in its usual 
way. Her vision cleared, she saw Lavery opposite drink¬ 
ing coffee and re-lighting his cigar. She looked round 
the room—solid oak furniture, reddish carpet and cur¬ 
tains, silver on the sideboard and rows of bright-coloured 
wine-glasses, green and red, a fine damask cloth on the 
table. . . . 

A noise of wheels and hoofs in the street. Lavery 
got up. As he went out one door, Nora came in the 
other, and stopped short. In a quick glance, Mary took 
in her whole appearance. 




XI 


T HE girl Mary remembered had changed, 
more than the ten years accounted for. There 
was nothing left of her youth. Her body 
was painfully thin, a mere wdsp, and the tight- 
fitting* black dress emphasized each sharp angle. 
There were great hollows in her face under the high 
cheek-bones and in her neck, round which she wore a 
white lace collar fastened by a large cameo brooch. Ear¬ 
rings to match the brooch, too heavy for her face, brought 
out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and 
slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its 
vivid colour and luxuriance. 

Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped—stood there, look¬ 
ing sullen, biting her lips. They gazed at one another. 
Mary was conscious of a remote astonishment that Nora 
should look so angry. . . . Voices sounded in the hall. 

“There’s the doctor,” said Mary hurriedly, getting, 
up. “Nora, how long has—has he been ill exactly, 
do you know ? ’ ’ 

1 ‘ Since he came here Thursday afternoon—he was sick 
then but he wouldn’t let me send for a doctor—I wanted 


Her voice died away, again she had that sullen de¬ 
fensive look. 

‘ ‘ I know. It isn’t your fault—I’m sure you did every¬ 
thing you could,” Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, 

and went out into the hall. She felt extremely uncom- 

285 



286 


PROUD LADY 


fortable in Nora’s presence, but there was no time to 
think about that now. 

Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, 
full of energy. After seeing the patient, he sat down in 
the study and talked with Mary. Finding her calm and 
alert, he explained the treatment he proposed to give, a 
new method—plenty of air and food, and cold baths. He 
cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had 
met professionally. He thought they would need another 
nurse, as the patient must be watched day and night. 
Mary eagerly asked if she could not take the night-duty, 
but he shook his head; he preferred a trained person, 
and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But 
she could be on hand—when her husband was conscious 
he would want her there. He was curt and grave and 
used no soothing phrases. Mary did not ask what he 
thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner 
what he thought. He went away, saying that he would 
send for the night-nurse and would return himself about 
midnight. She might telegraph to Dr. Lowell if she 
wished. 

Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he 
came up Mary was in the sickroom. The nurse had to 
give some medicine; twice a restless movement of the 
patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under Lau¬ 
rence’s head and held him still while the medicine was 
given. She smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid 
her cool hand on his forehead. For a moment he was 
quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids closed. 
She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him 




PROUD LADY 


287 


so, close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she 
could not breathe for the pain. . . . Then Lavery came 
in. Laurence began again that murmuring and tossed 
away from her. Presently she got up and went out. 

She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, 
leaned back and closed her eyes till she could control the 
nervous trembling that shook her. Lavery, lighting one 
of his thick black cigars, came and sat down near her. 
He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. 
She looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shad¬ 
ows under the eyes. 

“ You ’re tired out.” 

“Well, I’m tired—I was up last night a good deal,” 
he admitted. 

“You must go home now and rest, there’s nothing 
more to do here. The doctor’s sending another nurse 
and he’ll be in again himself. . . . You’ve been very 
good.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, ’ ’ he said brusquely, ‘ ‘ I guess it will be all right. ’ ’ 

“Well, it may be a long illness, you know—weeks. 
Now—I want to ask you—” she frowned and gazed at 
him haughtily. “Here we all are, you see—the two 
nurses and me, and there’ll be special cooking, and— 
Well, how will she manage? It’s her house, I suppose. 
I don’t see how we can all—” 

“Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I 
know, and you could hire another one if you want. 
But she’ll want to do something herself, she,—oh, well, 
hang it, she’s devoted to Laurence.” 

“I suppose so. . . . You know her, don’t you, pretty 
well ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, I’ve been here a good deal. Laurence 




288 


PROUD LADY 


» ■ ■' ' . — ■■■ ' ■'« 

has always had his rooms here ever since I’ve known him 
—it’s quieter, you see, and—well, Mary, I guess you 
knew about it, didn’t you?” 

“I did, and I didn’t,” said Mary clearly. ‘‘Long 
ago I did.” 

“Well, yes—he never said much to me, only that it 
was an old—affair. Of course I could see how it was—« 
more a responsibility, to him, than—” 

“Oh, I understand, you needn’t worry, so far as I’m 
concerned,” said Mary, coldly. “I just want Laurence 
to get well, and everybody will have to do the best 
they can. It’s—well, I can’t talk to her tonight, she’s 
so upset, but I don’t want her to feel that I’ve just 
walked in and taken possession—after all, it’s her house. 
She looks so—afraid, and angry at me too—I can’t 
help it, she ought to know I have to be here. But I 
don’t want to make it harder for her than—oh, well, 
I’ll have to talk to her. It doesn’t matter very much 
anyway, what she feels or what I feel. It doesn’t seem 
very important.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Lavery absently. 

They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, 
and brooded with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in 
the big chair, relaxed . . . and a feeling of the unreality 
of all about her made it seem that some bridge between 
her and the world had dropped suddenly. . . . There 
was only a tremendous vacancy; stillness, emptiness, 
pressed upon her. . . . 

Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from 
the sick man. She started up. 




XII 


B Y next day the routine of life in these new cir¬ 
cumstances was arranged. Mary had a couch 
in the study, the two nurses having their rooms 
upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the 
sickroom. Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in 
the young doctor’s diagnosis and proposed method of 
treatment. Alone with Mary, he said: 

‘‘Sayre is all right. Now it’s a question of care—and 
of course, if Laurence has the vitality to pull through. 
I think he has. You can keep an eye on the nurses—• 
the best will stand watching—careless, forget things—” 
“Yes.” 

“And you’ll see there’s plenty of good food—nourish¬ 
ing soups, eggs and milk, meat jellies—” 

“Yes.” Then she said. “You know, for some years 
past Laurence has been drinking pretty steadily—a 
good deal. Do you think—?” 

Dr. Lowell shook his head. “Doesn’t make a bit of 
difference. ’ ’ 

“Then you think he may—’’ 

“I don’t know a thing about it, Mary, that’s the 
truth—and it generally is the truth. I think he has 
an even chance. ... I suppose you have no idea where 
he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we 
haven’t a case in town.” 

“No—he’s always moving about, you know—he was in 
Springfield last week—” 


289 


290 


PROUD LADY 


“Yes. Well, I’ll come in, say tomorrow evening, and 
stay overnight. Suit you? Got to get my train now.” 

He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and de¬ 
parted. Mary was used to that look from him. It was 
the only commentary he had ever made on the course of 
her married life; and she had made no confidences to 
him. Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly 
cool unemotional manner meant: things were so serious 
that there was no use making a fuss. "When the balance 
hung between life and death one had to be ready for 
either. No time for tears—a smile was a more natural 
thing—one could smile, long after tears were all wept 
away. 

She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, 
because Nora’s eyes were perpetually reddened and she 
always seemed on the point of crying. Even when dis¬ 
cussing the preparation of soups, arranging for extra 
service, expenses, all the details of a household in state 
of siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. 
Nerves! 

Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized 
her. She thought it probable, otherwise he would have 
asked how Laurence came to be at this house. He had 
asked no questions. 

She recalled the violence with which Nora had re¬ 
jected her offer to get another servant. “We don’t need 
anybody else, we can get along all right.” Then under 
her breath, “Too many people here now!” 

That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had 
been an old habit of Nora’s when her temper was roused. 
But this time she added hurriedly. “I’ll do the cook¬ 
ing myself, I want to do it. You just tell me what you 




PROUD LADY 


291 


want and Ill get it—night or day, it’s all the same to 
me.” 

She had spoken with intensity, looking away from 
Mary, her cheeks had flushed hotly. For a moment she 
looked like the passionate girl of long ago. 

Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did 
not want to call her “Mrs. Carlin.” Mary without 
thinking had called her Nora; she did not like that, per¬ 
haps. . . . Mary shrugged her shoulders with an iron¬ 
ical smile. 

After her father had gone, she remained sitting in 
her chair in the study, her hands folded in her lap, her 
eyes fixed on the smouldering fire in the grate. . . . 
Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through the 
years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing 
out like sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering 
a lifetime almost. . . . 

She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for 
the first time, as though they belonged to some one else. 
It seemed that a process, now suddenly completed, had 
been going on for a long time—a process of breaking, 
one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to 
the self which she no longer felt to be hers. ... Or 
rather, it was hers, that self, but it no longer represented 
her, contained her, it was not all of her. She could 
stand apart from it and criticize it without feeling. 

She looked back to the time when she had been all 
one self, completely contained in a firm shell: when she 
had been sure she was right, and all other persons, when 
they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending pride, pride 
that had outlasted even her self-righteousness—pride 
that held fast to the form long after the substance of 




292 


PROUD LADY 


feeling had gone. . . . Never had she been able to admit 
that she was wrong, even after she had seen it clearly. 
Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her unhap¬ 
piness—or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her 
that she had begun to feel wrong? Was it because of 
this wrong that she had lost her religion—or was it 
that her religion was a false shell, and only after break¬ 
ing through it had she been able to see such light as this ? 

It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved 
and taken pride in, had suffered a slow disintegra¬ 
tion. . . . All that she could now feel as surely hers, 
was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in judgment; 
and something else, that was suffering deeply, 
dumbly. . . . 

There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly 
bear to look. Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, 
was struggling passionately there for expression. This 
dark depth of feeling was common to the self she had 
rejected and to what she now was—it spread far out 
beyond either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, 
swelling to overwhelm her ... it was terror and grief, 
common to all the world, from which till now she had 
walled herself apart. . . . Only for a moment could she 
bear that. . . . She had to keep calm, keep her head clear 
—she was on guard. And she could do it, her nerve was 
good. If Laurence should die—go out perhaps without 
a word to her—then the flood would break over her. 
But till then she could hold it back. 

Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would 
recognition that she had done it, a sincere wish to atone 
for it, be of any use? ... Yes, to that self in w T b.ich she 




PROUD LADY 


293 


no longer felt any interest. It would be good for herself 
to repent—but she did not care now about being good or 
right. She would like to make up for what she had 
done. And that was no doubt impossible. By her own 
actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora’s life, 
and of Laurence’s. In a real sense then atonement was 
impossible, repentance was useless. One’s acts were 
irrevocable. All she could do was to recognize her re¬ 
sponsibility and pay that part of the price that was 
assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that 
others had paid far more heavily than she. 

How differently that old self of hers w T ould have 
looked upon this situation. There would have been two 
sinners and one righteous person judging them. The 
same house would hardly have held Nora and that other 
woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she 
should touch pitch and be defiled. . . . She remembered 
Hilary’s attitude about sin, and her own condemnation 
of it . . . and reflected vaguely that she had lost her 
hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything 
was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from 
white. . . . Only she regretted—yes, bitterly regretted 
—long empty years . . . Her wrongs, and revenge, and 
hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the 
good out of life and she had starved. . . . 




XIII 


A WEEK passed. She watched Laurence’s strug¬ 
gle, saw his strong body wasting away day by 
day, saw him weakening under the incessant 
fever. There had been no gleam of recognition for her; 
he was delirious or lay in a stupor. She tried to fol¬ 
low his wanderings in that strange borderland where 
the physical struggle was transmuted into fantasies 
reflecting his past life. Broken phrases told her he was 
fighting old battles over again. . . . He was contesting 
a field of war, leading his men into action; he shouted 
hoarse words of command, then cried out—he was down 
but the men must go on, take that position on the ridge. 
. . . Then he saw his brother fall, but he couldn’t stop, 
must go on, on . . . through the icy water, up that 
slope where the bullets sang. ... A soldier’s funeral. 
He beat time to the Dead March and the last bugle- 
call. . . . 

Or it was a courtroom scene. He was fighting hard 
for somebody’s life, he pleaded passionately in low mur¬ 
murs. The man hadn’t meant to do wrong, Gentlemen 
of the Jury, he had meant well, only somehow things 
were against him and he had got into trouble. . . . Your 
Honour, before you pronounce sentence, I ask to be 
heard. . . . 

Then he was in a storm, the snow blinded him, he 

was freezing, couldn’t go on ... or in a desert, lost, 

294 


PROUD LADY 


295 


crying for water. Always the struggle of mind and 
body against odds, it seemed, a desperate losing bat¬ 
tle. . . . 

Mary would watch this, always calm, cool, alert for 
anything she could do to relieve or supplement the 
nurses. When she gave way it was after she had locked 
herself into a room alone, and then it was not an emo¬ 
tional breakdown but a drop into nothingness. She 
would lie with her eyes shut, feeling nothing, caring 
for nothing. Somewhere there was a dumb sense of 
injury, of injustice—but even this seemed not to matter, 
since there was no one to complain to. . . . Things 
were like this. 

As the days went by, all outside the sickroom became 
more shadowy to her. Even Jim coming in to see her, 
grown suddenly a man in this trouble, stalwart and 
serious; her father’s visits, the young doctor, Horace 
Lavery, her daily consultations with Nora—her mind, 
aloof and critical, received and registered all the de¬ 
tail of life, dealt with it, but it had the thin quality 
of shadow. The reality was there with Laurence. 
Sometimes he murmured her name, spoke to her; not 
recognizing her there beside him, but seeing her far in 
the past—tenderly. There seemed no harshness in his 
memory of her, no pain from those battles they had 
gone through or the long estrangement. His tone was 
appealing, it had a child-like pathetic demand. He 
wanted her to do something about this that was bother¬ 
ing him. 

Then came a day when the fever broke. Instead of 
going up toward night it went down. The patient slept 




296 


PROUD LADY 


quietly a good deal of the night, and woke in the dawn, 
conscious. 

Mary too had slept soundly that night for the 
first time; waking she saw the beaming face of the 
nurse. 

“You can go in, he’s quite himself. . . . But don’t 
let him talk, he’s too weak.” 

He lay there, too weak indeed even to put out his hand 
toward her, but his eyes welcomed her. How young 
those eyes looked, vividly blue in his wasted face! The 
outline of his face under the black beard was that of his 
youth and his body was slender as in youth. He smiled 
at her faintly. She knelt beside him and kissed him 
lightly with deep tenderness, and whispered that he 
mustn’t try to talk, thank God he was better, but he 
must be very quiet and get back his strength, everything 
was all right. His eyes smiled at her, rested on her 
face with the old warmth of youthful love. He whis¬ 
pered her name. 

The nurse came in with some soup, and Mary fed 
him like a child, with deep solicitude, with delight. 
His eyes closed, he must sleep again; but when she 
moved he stirred to keep her there. She nodded and 
drew a chair to the bedside and sat motionless long after 
he slept. 

In the early afternoon, when Laurence had waked and 
was again sleeeping, with the fever still down, Horace 
Lavery insisted upon taking Mary out for an airing. 
When she objected, he took her by the arm and led her 
to a mirror. “Don’t you think you need a change?” 
he enquired severely. She smiled at the pallid face 




PROUD LADY 


297 


*—.. - 

in the glass, looking certainly ten years older in this 
fortnight, with deep lines in it, the hair carelessly 
pushed back. 

“You’ve got to keep up your strength, you know, 
and you haven’t poked your nose outdoors since you 
came,” Horace stated. “It’s a lovely day. I’ll get 
a carriage.” 

“Well,” agreed Mary. “I feel like celebrating. But 
only an hour—Laurence might wake and want me 
there.” 

The whole atmosphere of the house was changed—a 
subdued rejoicing had filled it as the black shadow 
lifted. Nora even for the first time smiled at Mary 
coming downstairs in her long black cloak and bonnet. 
And Mary smiled back radiantly and clasped Nora’s 
rather limp hand. Nora, by way of celebrating too, per¬ 
haps, had put on a lavender silk dress, more striking 
than becoming in contrast to her red hair, now neatly 
arranged. She had a visitor, at whom Mary just 
glanced in passing—a stout woman in black satin, with 
a large feathered bonnet and diamond earrings. Mary 
of course would never have thought of wearing diamond 
earrings on the street. She possessed a very hand¬ 
some pair—she and Laurence always gave one another 
handsome presents on Christmas—but she had hollow 
gold balls made to fit over the diamonds for the street 
or in travelling. . . . Nora’s visitor certainly looked 
vulgar . . . and that dress Nora was wearing was a 
terrible colour, though it was very rich silk. Nora 
looked like a witch in it, with her thin face and carroty 
hair. . . . Had Nora also, perhaps, a pair of diamond 
earrings? . . . 





298 


PROUD LADY 


Mary, with a high colour in her cheeks, swept 
haughtily out of the house. 

The victoria drove slowly down the cobbled street, 
Mary and Lavery sitting side by side. With an effort 
she turned her attention toward her silent escort, and 
observed that he was attired in a frock-coat, light grey 
trousers and a silk hat. 

“You’re all dressed up!” she said with faint gaiety. 

“Yes—usher at a wedding at five o’clock—up to today 
I didn’t think I could do it—but now I don’t mind. 
Why, today I’d hardly mind getting married myself!” 

His smoothly-shaven face showed signs of the days of 
stress which, after forty, man nor woman can encounter 
with impunity. There was a tremor of the muscles 
round his mouth as he said abruptly: 

“I don’t know why I got tied up this way with you 
and Laurence. Awful mistake—and dead against my 
principles. Why, it spoils life, that’s what it does. 
And it ain’t that I’m so fond of you two either—that is, 
I don’t think I am.” He smiled uncertainly. “Old 
fool,” he muttered. 

Mary laid her hand on his arm. 

“Don’t do that, damn it,” he said, drawing out a 
scented handkerchief. “Can’t you see I’m about to 
cry ? ’ ’ 

“Well, do, then,” said Mary. 

“At my time of life a nervous strain like this is no 
joke,” he retorted peevishly. “I tell you I’m going to 
cut your acquaintance. I can’t afford it.”# 

“Well, do.” 

He scowled. “At forty-five a man has a right to think 




PllOUD LADY 


299 


of himself—consider his little comforts and so on. He 
can’t afford emotions, they’re simply ruinous. . . . And 
I might have known you and Laurence would let me in 
for them. You’re that kind. I suspected it all along.” 

It was a warm misty day of Indian summer. The 
carriage turned into the drive on the shore of the lake. 
There trees were shedding softly their last golden leaves. 
The lake was a deep cloudy blue, lapping in ripples on 
the sand. 

“I think I’d like to walk a ways,” said Mary sud- 
** denly. “It seems years since I stepped foot on the 
ground. ’ ’ 

She left her wrap in the carriage, which followed them 
slowly as they strolled along the shore, and halted when 
they sat down after a time on a bench facing the water. 
They were silent, relaxed and weary, each immersed in 
a separate stream of thought; but conscious too of com¬ 
panionship. When Lavery spoke finally it was as 
though he were thinking aloud. 

“I believe we are not meant to go through such emo¬ 
tional strain—I mean, human beings simply aren't 
constructed for it,” he meditated. “I think we’ve gone 
off on a tangent, a wrong turning. We’ve overdevel¬ 
oped our emotions, and Nature penalizes us every time 
for it. When you consider it, the physical world being 
what it is, really hostile to us, so that we have to be 
always on guard, and with all our care we’re liable to an 
accident any minute—why, it’s not reasonable for us 
to care so much for life or death—our own or other 
people’s. Is it now? We put a wrong emphasis there, 
I’m sure.” 

Mary remained silent, and he went on: 




300 


PROUD LADY 


“Of course, you may say that what we think is our 
highest development is all, in a way, against Nature. . . . 
Nature works for the mass, for the average, she wants 
quantity, not quality—she’s inclined, when she sees a 
head rising above the mass to hit it. . . . What does 
Nature do for the finer, more sensitive human beings? 
She knocks them, every chance she gets. Suppose we 
develop altruistic feelings, a disinterested love for some 
other human being, we get hit through it, every time. 
No, ma’am, it doesn’t pay! This world is constructed 
for people with tough shells—all others pass at their 
own risk. . . . And I think maybe we’d do better by the 
w'orld, and other people, and ourselves, if w T e recognized 
that—if we had a real philosophy of toughness, instead 
of what we’ve mistakenly developed. . . . The philos¬ 
ophy of tenderness is the fashion, of course—people pro¬ 
fess it, are actually ashamed not to—and a few practise 
it. But what good is it? It doesn’t fit the facts, that’s 
all, doesn’t work. Since we’re flung out defenceless into 
a world that doesn’t care a hang about us as individuals, 
we ought to grow a tough shell as quick as we can, and 
stay in it if we want to survive. The only philosoph¬ 
ical solution is not to have personal feelings. ... You 
must either not admit them at all, but live like a crab 
in your shell—or else you must transcend them. Mystics 
say this can be done—I’ve never tried it myself. They 
say you can merge your own individuality in the mass, 
so that you are simply a part of what is going on, and 
don’t feel personal loss or pain much. . . . What say 
about that?” 

He turned to Mary, and saw that she had not been 
listening. She was staring at the blue shimmering water 





PROUD LADY 


301 


—and suddenly she flushed deeply, painfully, and looked 
distressed. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Lavery sharply. 

‘ 4 What’s bothering* you now ?’ ’ 

“It’s about Nora — 99 

“Nora? What about her?” 

“Well, I just thought that I might have asked her 
to go up and see Laurence for a minute, now he’s better. 

. . . She hasn’t been near the room since I came. . . . 
And I took it that way, as if she had no business 
there. ...” 

Lavery looked sideways at her, discomfited. 

“Well, you couldn’t have too many people running in 
—he isn’t fit for it,” he muttered. 

“No, but I do feel badly about her. . . . You see, 
it goes back years. She was in our house, took care of 
the boys when they were little. She really loved them— 
and I guess she’d always been fond of Laurence, she 
knew him before I did. But I didn’t notice it until . . . 
well, I discovered it suddenly and . . . she was turned 
out of the house practically. ... I didn’t concern my¬ 
self about how she lived after that. ...” 

“So that was the trouble,” said Lavery, looking 
curiously at her. “I never knew that—I mean, that 
she was concerned in it. . . . And you were awfully 
angry ?’ ’ 

Mary frowned. “I don’t know what I was. ... It 
did something to me—I never got over it—couldn’t.” 

“I suppose you were very much in love with Lau¬ 
rence then.” 

“I don’t know whether I was or not, that wasn’t the 
way I thought about it. ... I didn’t think about it 




302 


PROUD LADY 


much anyway—I never liked thinking about my feel¬ 
ings ... or talking about them.” 

“You don’t mind talking a little this way, do you?” 

“No, not now—it seems so long ago, and then—I’m 
hardly the same person I was then.” 

“And so you turned her out. . . . But you didn’t 
want to leave Laurence?” 

Mary was silent for some moments. 

“Perhaps I did, perhaps not. ... I didn’t leave him, 
in one way, and in another I did. It couldn’t be the 
same. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ Oh, no . . . but still in the course of time you might 
have forgiven him.” 

“It wasn’t that. ... I don’t believe there’s such a 
thing as forgiveness. We forget, that’s all.” 

“And you didn’t forget. ... I wonder if you loved 
Laurence. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know. He always said I didn’t. . . . But 
he’s had his life anyway.” 

“No doubt. And you’ve had yours.” 

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, yes.” 

He waited, watching her curiously, and after a mo¬ 
ment she broke out: 

“I know this—the only times I’ve ever felt afraid— 
real fear—it was on account of Laurence—when he was 
in danger.” 

“You didn’t exactly want him, then, but you didn’t 
want to lose him either? . . . You wanted him in some 
way. ’ ’ 

“Oh . . . that’s enough about that. . . . But I 
was talking about Nora. I can see she thinks she’ll be 




PROUD LADY 


303 


thrown out again. Any how she just hates me.” 

“Well, naturally.” 

“But I tell you, I’m sorry for what I did. I’d like 
her to know it. But I can’t say anything to her. It 
seems, everything I could say would sound—patroniz¬ 
ing, or forgiving, or—wrong, anyway.” 

“Of course. You’re in possession, you see. She 
knows it, and that she hasn’t got any real hold. You 
can’t get around that. I don’t see what you can do 
about it.” 

“But, you see, she really gave up her life—first to 
my children, and then. . . . She would have married 
and had children of her own.” 

“No doubt. She might yet. But not while Lau¬ 
rence is around. It’s a real passion on her side.” 

“Well—that’s my doing. I mean, that it lasted as 
long as it did. It was because I acted the way I did 
that he didn’t break with her then.” 

“He’d have been glad to, many times since, I guess. 
She is as jealous as the devil, and makes scenes about 
any shadow of a woman. Naturally—she knows she 
hasn’t got much of a hold on him, only he feels re¬ 
sponsible. ... I don’t really see, Mary, why you should 
have made such a fuss about her. ... It isn’t as if he’d 
ever been in love with her. . . . Why couldn’t you let 
him have his humble handmaiden ... or at any rate, 
not upset the whole apple-cart on account of it?” 

“Oh, I know, you have no morality—hardly any man 
has. Anyhow it has nothing to do with that. ... I 
want to know what to do now.” 

“Well, I don’t see what you can do.” 




304 


PROUD LADY 


They had spoken in calm neutral tones and now were 
silent again. Lavery watched Mary; her face was in¬ 
tent, slightly frowning, baffled. He reflected that she 
had a concrete sort of mind, abstract questions, prob¬ 
lems of character or conduct, did not interest her, she 
wanted to “do something.” And really now, what 
could she do about this situation? 

“You see,” he said slowly, “things are changed now. 
Your being there—right there in the house—don’t you 
see ? I think, when he gets well, Laurence will want to 
break away for good and all from there. Of course 
she’d be looked after, materially, that’s only right. 
And she’d probably have a chance to settle in life, it 
would be better, in the long run, for her. ... I’m sort 
of taking it for granted,” he added gravely, “that you 
want Laurence back.” 

Mary’s face was an expressionless mask; lowered eye¬ 
lids hid her eyes. 

“I guess you want him back, and you don’t want 
any other woman round. I sort of think you’re human, 
after all.” 

“I’m afraid to say,” she murmured. 

“What? How?” 

“I'm afraid. ... It seems, I mustn’t want anything 
now, I mustn’t count on anything. ... I must try to 
do right, to make up what I can, in any case, whether 
Laurence— ’ ’ Suddenly she turned and cowered against 
Lavery, hiding her face on his shoulder, clutching his 
arm. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid!” 

He sat silent and nodded his head slightly, looking 
blank, then became cheerful, expostulated: 

“Oh, I know we’re not out of the woods yet—but, I 




PROUD LADY 


305 


say, you’re not going to pieces, are you, the first good 
day we’ve had, and me with a wedding on my hands? 
. . . I say, this is unreasonable. . . . Poor girl, you’re 
tired out, I know . . . but what d’ye suppose the coach¬ 
man thinks?” 

“As if I cared!” But she sat up and straightened 
her bonnet. “We’d better go back now.” 

The sun was almost too warm on their bench. . . . 
And the water . . . what a blue, soft and cloudy, a 
heavenly colour. . . . The softness and warmth of 
summer shed for a day over bare boughs and falling 
leaves. . . . 




XIY 


HEY drove back rapidly. In the hall, Mary 



found Nora waiting for her. Nora, with flashing 


eyes and bright red spots on her cheek-bones, 
came up to her and said: 

“There’s a woman in there. . . . She wouldn’t go 
away! ’ 9 

“Where? A woman? What woman?” 

‘ ‘ In the parlour. I don’t know who she is. . . . She 
wants to see him.” 

“Wants to see. . . ?” 

“I told her she couldn’t, but she wouldn’t go away. 
You better tell her! ’ ’ 

Lavery had come in and gone on upstairs. With a 
severe look at Nora, Mary opened the parlour door and 
went in. A woman who had been standing at the win¬ 
dow turned to meet her. A woman, tall as herself, 
young and slender—dressed in plain black but richly 
dressed. A faint perfume was shaken out as she moved, 
from her silken clothes. 

“Mrs. Carlin? . . . I’ve been waiting. ... I wanted 
to know just how he is. ... I’m a friend, I’ve been 
very anxious.” 

A hat with a drooping lace veil partly hid her face. 
She was striking, if not beautiful—a long narrow face, 
with intense dark eyes under straight brows, thick hair 
of a dark auburn colour. Her look was as direct and 
wilful as her words. 


306 


PROUD LADY 


* 


307 

— . -» 

“He is better today—conscious for tbe first time, but 
very weak,” said Mary evenly, with her stateliest man¬ 
ner. 

4 4 Could I see him ? . . . Oh, I don’t mean to speak to 
him, I know that wouldn’t do. . . . But just to look 
at him for a minute ? ’ ’ 

The request was uttered politely enough, but like a 
command. 

“No. If he saw you it would disturb him perhaps. 
I can’t risk it,” said Mary calmly. 

“You needn’t. If he’s awake I won’t ask it. But 
if he isn’t, it won’t hurt him if I just stand at the door 
for a minute. . . . That’s all I want, and I won’t come 
again. . . . Won’t you see? Please!” 

The woman was breathing quickly, her voice was agi¬ 
tated, and those dark eyes burned. . . . Well, she was 
straightforward enough, anyway, no excuses, no beat¬ 
ing about the bush. Here was a woman who would 
know what she wanted and wouldn’t have any weak 
scruples about getting it. . . . Refuse her? . . . Well, 
after all, why? Perhaps she too had a right to be 
there. . . . 

“Come up with me. ... I’ll see how he is. . . . But 
you won’t. ...” 

“Oh, he shan’t know I’m here, depend on me.” 

Mary led the way out into the hall and up the stairs. 
She saw Nora standing at the back of the hall, her face 
convulsed with anger. ... At the head of the stairs 
was Lavery. 

11 Still sleeping—that’s fine,” he whispered. 

Then as he saw the woman behind Mary on the stairs, 
utter amazement showed in his face. He stepped back, 





308 


PROUD LADY 


i 


bowed, and she acknowledged his recognition by a slight 
bend of her head. 

“Come in this way,” said Mary. 

The visitor followed her into the study, and then, 
when Mary beckoned to her, to the door of the sickroom. 
She moved slowly, shrinkingly; clasping her hands over 
her breast, fixing her dark eyes on Laurence’s face, 
just dimly visible. A look of terror came into those 
eyes, her lips parted, but without a sound. ... In a few 
moments she moved noiselessly back. Hastily she 
dropped the veil over her face, turned to Mary, said 
in a choked voice, “Thank you,” bowed as she passed. 
. . . In a moment she was down the stairs and out of 
the house. 

Then the doctor came and went, much encouraged. 
And then Mary went down to her solitary supper. Nora 
came in to wait upon her, still incongruously attired in 
the lavender gown, but pale and lowering. 

“Nora, have you been in to see Laurence,” asked 
Mary gently. 

Nora shook her head sharply. 

“You’d like to see him tomorrow, wouldn’t you, if 
he keeps as well as today ? ’ ’ 

“He hasn’t asked to see me, I guess,” said Nora 
coldly. 

“No, he hasn’t asked for anybody, he’s too weak to 
talk. But I’m sure he’d like to see you,” Mary said, 
still studiously kind. 

“When he asks for me, I’ll go,” Nora flashed out. 
Her whole face was ablaze, her eyes flamed. “And you 
shouldn’t have let that woman up there—she’s always 




PROUD LADY 


309 


after him, she writes to him, there’s packs of letters 
from her—” 

‘‘How do yon know?” 

“Oh, I didn’t open the letters . . . but I know! . . . 
What right has she to come here and want to see him ? ’ ’ 

“Well, I don’t know. . . . She seemed very fond of 
him,” said Mary calmly. 

Nora rushed out of the room. 

And then Mary repented her malice. That poor 
thing, it was a shame to torment her. . . . And how 
foolish to have made a fuss, as Lavery said, about Nora. 
. . . That other woman, that was the dangerous one, 
Nora was harmless, poor creature. . . . And heaven 
knows how many more there are. ... Yes, Laurence 
had had his life. . . . Sometime perhaps she too would 
be angry about this, but not now. . . . Now she would 
prefer to be kind, even to Nora. 

But perhaps Nora’s instinct was right, and Lavery’s. 
It might be useless for her to try to approach Nora, or 
to try to be reasonable. It might only make things 
worse. Nora was willing to do her best practically 
—that was all that could be asked of her. Her personal 
feelings were her own affair. 

But Mary was obstinate. That feeling of deep injury, 
of bitterness, of hate perhaps which she had seen in Nora 
toward herself—how could she consent to have that re¬ 
main, if there was anything she could do to soften it? 
She was willing to do anything possible, willing to admit 
that she had been unjust. Her pride, from the moment 
she felt herself in the wrong, was on the side of admitting 
it, practically forced her to do it. . . . But why was 




310 


PROUD LADY 


it that she seemed to say or do just the wrong thing, 
why was it so hard for her to approach people, even when 
she wished them well—what stupidity in her made her 
offend? Was it deeper than that? Was it after all 
that she perhaps didn’t feel kindly to Nora, didn’t 
wish her well ? . . . This incident tonight seemed to show 
it. She had had a chance to annoy Nora and she had 
done it. . . . Was she still bound then by the limitations 
of that old self, which she saw so clearly? Were one’s 
faults and weaknesses inherent, not to be got rid of, 
even if one condemned them? Apparently. . . . 

No, one thing was different, her will. She willed 
to be different from what she had been—she would 
force that old self of hers to be different, at least 
to act in another way. And Nora should feel it 
too. 

“Nora!” she called clearly. 

She waited a few minutes, then got up to go in search. 
But Nora came in through the pantry-door and shut it 
behind her; leaning against it she looked at Mary with 
defiant eyes. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to do 
anything against you. Do you think I want to hurt 
you? Don’t you see?” 

“It’s no matter whether you do or not,” Nora said in 
a hard tone. 

“I want to tell you that I think I was wrong—long 
ago. I wasn’t fair to you. I—” 

“It’s no matter now,” Nora broke in again. 

“Yes, it is. I want to say—” 

“I don’t want you to say anything! ... I guess 




PROUD LADY 


311 


you were fair enough, you treated me all right. Any¬ 
body would have. . . 

She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted. 

“Well, I just want to say that I feel I owe you a good 
deal. I realized it afterwards. The children. ... I 
knew you’d really loved them—” 

Nora shrank at that and bit her lip. 

“It’s no use talking, I don’t want to talk about it,” 
she cried. “I’ve been a bad woman, and that’s all 
there is to it.” 

“No! I never thought you were bad—not even then. 
I don’t think I blamed you.” 

“Oh, I guess I was to blame,” muttered Nora, “I 
knew it, all right.” 

11 1 want you to know that I don’t blame you and that I 
don’t think you’re bad.” 

“I don’t see that that’s got anything to do with it. 
I guess I know if I’m bad or not. ... I know that 
I can’t go to confession, and I believe I’ll go to hell 
. . . and I don’t care much if I do. . . . And I know 
what happened on account of me too.” 

Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her compo¬ 
sure. 

“That—my fault more than yours—” she stammered. 

And Nora grew more composed. There was even a 
strange air of dignity about her as she said after a 
moment: 

“I don’t want you to think about what’s past, Mrs. 
Carlin. It won’t do any good. I’ve done what I knew 
was wicked and—I don’t know if I’m sorry or not. 
So you see I don’t want you to forgive me, even if you 
wanted to. I don’t ask anybody’s forgiveness, because 




312 


PROUD LADY 


what difference would it make? It wouldn’t change 
anything. ’ ’ 

Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed 
the door. Mary, with shaking hands, poured herself 
a cup of strong coffee and drank it black. Well, that 
was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking 
and nothing she could do would make any difference. 

She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more 
respect and liking for Nora than ever before—felt it 
now perhaps for the first time. But it would be im¬ 
possible to make Nora feel that—if she tried she would 
strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like that 
—clumsy—yes, and worse than that, with impulses to 
hurt, that came so suddenly she couldn’t resist. She 
shrugged her shoulders. Best to drop it all. She had 
other things to think about anyway. . . . 

Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down 
beside him and took his hand. The light was dimmed, 
but she could see the glimmer of a smile on his face. 
His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. 
ITis eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a 
great distance. 

“You feel a little better, don’t you?” she said bend¬ 
ing down. 

“Yes,” he answered, faintly. 

“Don’t make him talk,” warned the nurse, “Tomor¬ 
row will be time enough.” 

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” said 
Laurence’s faint far-away voice. “Lighting fools the 
way to dusty death.” 

“Hush, you mustn’t talk!” gasped Mary. 




PROUD LADY 


313 


Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a 
smile, on his face. And all the while that strange look 
in his eyes. 

She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How 
these weeks of illness had wasted his strong body, 
withered him to a shadow. Man’s flesh is grass—it is 
cut down and cast into the oven. . . . Man horn of 
woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh 
up as a flower. . . . 

But Laurence was better, surely better, they all said 
so. . . . Hardly any fever. . . . 

But his strength was gone—eaten up by that burning 
fire. ... Was he drifting away, calm, without pain, 
like this, had he gone too far to come back? Surely he 
was far away, that was what his look meant. . . . 
Untroubled . . . indifferent ... he didn’t care, it 
seemed. He wasn’t interested. Just looking on, a 
mere spectator, no emotion, perhaps a slight amuse¬ 
ment. . . . His eyes closed, he was breathing evenly 
and quietly. 

Strange to see him like this, his restless and pas¬ 
sionate spirit stilled, so drawn away, so detached; it 
was not mere physical weakness, it was as though he 
were ceasing to be identified with this weakened body, 
deliberately withdrawing from it. This was not Lau¬ 
rence. ... It was Laurence who had looked at her in 
that first return to consciousness, with eyes of love . . . 
and then with that remote and passionless look, as 
though he had already said good-bye. . . . 

The wasted years. . . . Years that she had wasted 

. . when he had lived his life, near her but apart, 
when she had held him away—for what? ... He had 




314 


PROUD LADY 


loved life, had been so intensely living-. Now it seemed 
he didn’t care. He would make no effort to live—he 
was tired. They might try all they could to keep him. 
He would slip away, perhaps, through their fingers, 
with that glimmer of a smile at them. . . . She would 
be punished. It was just. She had no reason to feel 
injured, to complain. As she had sowed, she would 
reap. ... A mortal chill was at her heart. 

That night she could not sleep. The strong coffee 
she had taken keyed her up; her heart beat nervously, a 
stream of restless thoughts rushed through her brain. 
At intervals she would get up and look into the sickroom. 
The night-nurse would be moving about, or sitting in 
the large chair at the foot of the bed,; all seemed quiet. 
Toward morning Mary fell into a doze; troubled, un¬ 
easy, with the feeling that some one was calling her, she 
must rouse herself. She woke suddenly in the dawn, 
and heard a low moaning in the next room. She 
sprang up and went in. The nurse said: 

“I was just going to call you. I have to go down 
and get some ice. There’s a little more fever. Will 
you see he doesn’t get uncovered? Keep the blankets 
that way over his chest.” 

There was a dull flush again on his face, his hands 
were moving restlessly, and he kept up that low moan 
of distress. Mary kept the blankets over him, care¬ 
ful not to touch him, for her hands were icy cold. The 
nurse came back with the cracked ice and filled a rub¬ 
ber bag which she bound on his head. 

“When did you notice this change?” 




PROUD LADY 


315 


“About an hour ago he began to get restless.” 

“I’d better call Dr. Sayre.” 

“Not before seven o’clock, it wouldn’t be any use. 
They won’t wake him unless it’s absolutely necessary. 
And this may not be anything serious—there’s often a 
slight relapse. Don’t worry, Mrs. Carlin. Yesterday 
was too good to last, that’s all. We must expect ups 
and downs.” 

“But he’s so weak. ...” 

“Oh, I’ve seen them pull through, lots weaker than 
he is—he’s got a good strong physique. . . . Now don’t 
stand around, it’s too cold. You better go and get 
dressed, if you want to be up.” 

With a shivering look at Laurence’s dark face and 
half-open eyes, she went, dressed herself quickly, shook 
her long hair out of its braid and twisted it up roughly. 
She put on her bonnet and cloak. Then she started 
downstairs, careful to make no noise. She intended to 
get the doctor. The gas-light in the hall was burning, 
turned down to a point of light. As she fumbled with 
the chain on the door, Nora came into the hall, wrapped 
in a pink dressing-gown, her hair flowing thick over 
her shoulders. 

“What is it? I heard the nurse come down. 
Where are you going?” 

“To get the doctor. Laurence is worse.” 

“Don’t you go, this time of night—I’ll go!” 

“No,” said Mary, slipping the chain. 

“Wait, I’ll go with you—” 

“No, I can’t wait.” 

“Is he—very bad?” A sob. 




316 


PROUD LADY 


“I don’t know—the fever’s up again.” 

She opened the door. But Nora suddenly clutched 
her arm. 

“Don’t you give up! Mrs. Carlin, don’t look like 
that, don’t give him up! Surely he can’t be taken, 
God wouldn’t take him away—” 

“He’s too weak ... he hasn’t got strength to—” 
“Don’t say that, how do you know? Did you pray 
for him ? I did—he got better— ’ ’ 

“Let me go! I must go, Nora!” 

‘ ‘ Pray for him ! Pray for him! ’ ’ 

Mary wrenched her arm away and swung the door 
wide. Then suddenly she bent and kissed Nora’s cheek, 
wet with tears. 

Then she was out in the dim grey dawn, hurrying 
along the empty street. A cold wind was blowing 
now from the lake, the air was thick with fog. 

Pray? Was it prayer—this voiceless cry of anguish 
from her heart toward the unknowm? She could cry, 
0 God, don't take him from me, her lips uttered the 
words as she ran. But who would hear? . . . Far, 
far beyond reach or understanding, the force that 
moved this world of beauty and terror, that made these 
poor human beings going their ways in darkness, sin- 
ning and suffering they knew not why. Cold . . . 
harsh . . . bleak was human fate, like this dim steely 
light, this cutting wind, this stony street. . . . 














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